An extensive profile in Esquire serves as further (though unnecessary) testament to the fact that George Clooney is the human equivalent of the best kind of oak-barrel bourbon in the fanciest glass. And according to this intimate report, Clooney’s mansion is the home equivalent of George Clooney.
Tom Junod details many a feature of this handsome home, because he was invited into Clooney’s house and he wants everyone to take this journey with him. It’s a “man-cave writ large.” It’s just a pyramid of manly collections connected by “dark-wood-and-leather shadows.” Leather shadows! Goodness. Even the ceiling appears to be “salvaged from the Fortress of Solitude after Superman decided to modernize.”
Here are some more highlights of all the amazing things that Maison Clooney contains:
He is a dog guy — a little sign about men and dogs adorns a living-room wall otherwise dominated by signed photographs of dignitaries.
Beyond the garage stands the wooden front door, massive, slablike, arched, trellised with vines, and battering-ram resistant. To say that they don’t make doors like that anymore is to understate the case; they don’t make trees like that anymore. Some mogul must have ditched what was left of his soul for that door, and now it gives the house the stately air of a ruin behind which might very well lurk Gloria Swanson.
There is also a framed selection of neckties that once belonged to one powerful person in particular, John F. Kennedy.
[The bar] is arrayed with a swank skyline of liquors and cordials and on which is perched the figure of the fox that Wes Anderson used for the stop-motion animation of Fantastic Mr. Fox — Clooney was Mr. Fox; Mr. Fox was Clooney.
And an assortment of other notable tidbits: Clooney’s walls boast a lot of Rat Pack photographs. He has no-phone policy at dinner parties. His assistant’s name is Angel, because he is heavenly and all the things in his life are from heaven. “He smells like soap.” He mocked up Brad Pitt’s stationery, and writes to Don Cheadle and Meryl Streep with suggestions on how to do accents. His intruders come onto his property “dressed as trees.” He has a coffee machine he’s forgotten how to use.
Mr. Clooney, kindly write a lifestyle magazine for us: George Clooney Living. Talk about that coffee machine and your stationery pranks, and just list the different materials that comprise your home. I’m sure you would have a readership.
Though, just to remain balanced, there is one item of unavoidable eye-rollery in this 6,000-word profile: He refers to himself as “one of the first cats with a Tesla.” You were warned.
