STYLISH OLD FOLK
HIS HANDS are soft. And he might be the only guy alive who makes you envy crow’s-feet. His eyes are a beautiful light blue.
I meet him outside a soundstage at Warner Bros., and he suggests we walk to his office, a little Mission-style bungalow in a shady corner of the lot. He walks with a steady, smooth gait—he’s six feet three—and when he talks it’s in a quiet, soothing voice. Not that crusty Dirty Harry thing.
Outside one soundstage, a taping of Ellen has just ended, and a gaggle of women spills out. As we approach, one or two of them realize, “Hey, isn’t that—? It is!” But no words come from their agape mouths. Clint smiles and nods at them, tugs at the brim of a hat that doesn’t exist, and says, “Ladies….” Then he keeps walking…
When we get to his bungalow, he’s hungry. He asks if I want a sandwich, and I say yes. He shows me into what I guess you’d call the living room. There’s a leather couch and a coffee table. Beside the couch there’s a chair. Clint looks at the chair for a minute and then says, “Well, I guess you could sit down.” I sit. Then he says, “I’ll go make us some lunch.”
The room is dark, and the only light is what’s left of the hard, white afternoon sun that bounces in through the windows. It’s a plain room. Aside from the furniture, the only things in it are an old upright piano and, on the wall above the couch, an Italian poster of Clint for Per un Pugno di Dollari.
A few minutes later, Clint comes back.
“Here’s a sandwich,” he says. “Hope you like it.” He puts a plate in front of me: lunchmeat turkey, lettuce, tomato, and mustard on whole wheat.
Clint moves toward the sofa. When he sits, it’s like one of those big Giacometti Walking Man sculptures trying to sit. He’s all legs. It takes a minute, but finally he gets comfortable, extending his legs onto the coffee table, his sandwich in his lap.
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