This weekend, I hung out with John Malkovich as we both did errands around Cambridge. Of course, by “hung out” I mean I stood near him uttering not a word for fear of him fixing me with the Malkovich stare that can penetrate your soul. I love the guy, but I don’t know that my soul could handle such scrutiny. His voice is so unmistakable that I didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. A quick glance out of curiosity, however, revealed that he was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers and chatting with his teenage son like any dad out on a weekend day, which I suppose he is.
This would have been a much more interesting story had I talked to him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say anything because 1) the guy should have some privacy in his own neighborhood (in fact, every single person pretended not to notice him; and 2) I didn’t want to be a typical obsequious fan, squeaking: Oh, my God, I love your movies! Or You’re such a good psychopath! Plus, I had just seen Burn After Reading in which he plays a quick-to-anger guy who’s not afraid to wield an ax in his bathrobe.