Un message à la mer...

Forum de fanfictions Lost
 
AccueilAccueil  FAQFAQ  RechercherRechercher  S'enregistrerS'enregistrer  MembresMembres  GroupesGroupes  Connexion  

Partagez | 
 

 Article sur MenStyle

Aller en bas 
AuteurMessage
jade shadow
Auteur
avatar

Nombre de messages : 413
Age : 31
Localisation : A la plage, à lambiner
Date d'inscription : 23/04/2006

MessageSujet: Article sur MenStyle   Dim 4 Juin - 17:54



JOSH HOLLOWAY

The hottest redneck of television spills secrets from the set of Lost


The Muscovy duck is one unpleasant bastard. Feathers haphazardly drizzled in dishwater colors like some LeRoy Neiman painting, a bulbous wattle—something called a caruncle—hanging like a diseased scrotum from its bill. Oh, and they don’t quack. They hiss.


See? F***ers.


Around the feces-crusted docks and dinghies of this little inlet of Hawaii Kai, in fact, the Muscovy duck is better known by its informal name: shit factory. But a baby in any phylum is still, by definition, adorable. And when said baby is in distress? Well, even a waddling, hissing down pillow of excrement deserves to be rescued. Right?


Pacing cross-armed and fretful on her canal-front lawn one midnight not so long ago, Yessica Kumala answered, unequivocally, yes. Watching three motherless ducklings floundering helplessly in the dark waters that lead to Maunalua Bay—and eventually the Pacific Ocean—she bit her lip. She knew that their immediate future included one or all of the following: They would drown, be pureed by a passing motor, or get gobbled up by a barracuda.


“Baby,” she called through the patio door to her husband. “Get the boat.”


She wasn’t asking.




And so it was that Josh Holloway—a.k.a. Sawyer, the swindling, often shirtless redneck antihero of Lost—sprang (okay, stumbled; it was late at night) into action to do the most noble of things: save three ugly ducklings. With one hand gingerly guiding the motor of his eight-foot inflatable dinghy and the other shining a flashlight into the darkness, Holloway puttered through the bay as Kumala, crouched at the bow, scooped the baby bastards up with a tiny net.


Even today, three weeks later, retelling the story and soaking up a rare slice of sunshine in this, Hawaii’s monsoon season, Kumala can’t help but gush. Holloway bunches into a burly ball, all “Aw, shucks” and shrugged shoulders. Either he’s deep in the throes of love or he’s the most p-whipped man this side of Bobby Brown. Probably a little of both. Those ducks have names—Pecker Niblet, Zorro Cojones, and Sloppy Joe Scrawn—and a temporary residence in Holloway’s still-under-construction “man room” in the garage. Apparently they’ve also taken to doing that thing Muscovys are most famous for.


“Shit everywhere, man,” Holloway says, pointing to the polluted sheets of newspaper in the holding cell. Now that they’re grown, the plan is to take the trio out on a few test runs, let them mingle with the bigger ducks; you know, toughen them up before finally sending them back into the wild. Kumala is noticeably nervous about this. Holloway? Safely out of earshot he confides: “I mean, it’s ducks, man—in reality, they’re all dead anyway.”


Spoken—however quietly—like a true swindling, often shirtless redneck antihero.


And that’s the thing. As we untie ourselves from his dock and veer off into Maunalua Bay in search of rum and cigarettes (“Don’t say a damn thing,” he says, “or I’ll be back on the patch tomorrow.” Sorry, dude), the rough-hewn line between Holloway and Sawyer blurs. “C’mon now!” he whoops, revving the motor. This is his battle cry. There’s a North Star twinkle in his eye. I dig my feet into the boat’s rubber bottom and swallow. Hard.




Sure, Holloway probably won’t jack me for my life savings and nail my girlfriend like Sawyer would, but within 20 minutes of meeting me, he’s already joking about putting a shotgun in my mouth (long story)—and pointing out the unfortunate shape of a duck’s penis . . . which does kinda look like a strand of rotelle pasta, now that you mention it. And, of course, thanks to Lost’s need for strict onscreen continuity, he looks like he just crawled out from under the shade of his tarp beach shack. Beard trimmed precisely to that eighth-of-an-inch scruff he calls “the squirrel,” dirty-blond hair tucked under a ball cap, hide burned brown, and dimples you could jackknife a rig in.


But it’s not just smarm and smirks that Sawyer and Holloway share—both possess canine-sharp survival instincts. On TV, his character hoards medical supplies and guns; Holloway, who was a casting fluke away from being Forest Ranger Josh Holloway or Josh Holloway, Friendly Neighborhood Realtor, hoards opportunity. After eight years of failed pilots and straight-to-the-garbage indie films, he’s finally getting his shot, at 36. Which is nice. But this being Lost, in which Others, polar bears, and mysterious “monsters” roam the jungle, he also knows he’s always potentially just a script away from getting killed off.


So despite being the dangling slice of man meat on television’s most-celebrated and cultlike show, despite the new contract that will pay him a reported $80,000 per episode, despite the Mercedes roadster in the driveway—despite success—he and Kumala scrimp. They still shop at Food Land. They buy the cheap couches. They save the boxes. Instead of paying some agency $6,000 to handle fan mail, they do it themselves. And when they make a major purchase, like the new wall-to-wall flat-screen television in their living room, they do so with frayed fingernails. Holloway calls it a trailer-park mentality.


“But I’m not going back to the trailer, man!” He’s yelling now over the roar of the outboard. “Making money is one education. But keeping it? That’s a whole other lesson.”


LET’S JUST SOFTEN THE BLOW A BIT HERE, SHALL WE? TOUGHEN THE GUY UP. YOU KNOW, like the ducks?


Josh Holloway—real man, man’s man—has, in his life, toiled in the southern sun working construction. Hammer and nails and sweat. He’s shoveled rotten chicken carcasses and buried them in the red Georgia topsoil. This is important to point out because, well, dude got his start as a hair model.


Yep. Hair model. That’s why we’re here. One day Holloway, then 17, went for a haircut—a “real haircut” as he puts it—at the Perimeter Mall outside Free Home, Georgia, and just never came back. So impressed was the stylist with Holloway’s golden mop, she asked him to strut the catwalk at an upcoming show. “I was like, ‘No way,’” he says. “But then she told me it was just me and 12 girls and I get the haircut for free. And I was like, ‘Done!’”
The hair show led to steady modeling gigs through an agency out of Atlanta. After a year at the University of Georgia, an agency in New York City tracked him down and promised him better work. Holloway jumped a Greyhound quicker than you could say “Day-uhm.” A little friend-of-a-friend networking later, he found a place to crash in Queens with a bunch of metalhead brothers into beer, Megadeth, and Metallica. With the help of a fake ID, he got a job tending bar in the East Village at what’s now Lucky Cheng’s.


But in the late eighties Holloway’s pretty-boy androgyny was decidedly out. His agency suggested he go to Europe and “get some age on him.” So the wide-eyed bumpkin partied around the Old World for a few years until finally landing the cover of French Vogue. He was still broke, but at least he was famous. “It was everywhere,” he says. “All over Paris. Huge billboards. Buses. And I’m so poor I can’t even buy the son of a bitch.” That changed real quick. Next up came the cover of a little magazine called Details. Ads for Perry Ellis. Versace. His career as a clothes rack took off. But instead of blowing it, he took the $120,000 he was clearing annually and invested in a land-development company back in Georgia. A few years later he and his then-girlfriend became silent partners in the Los Angeles branch of the fashionable Indochine restaurant. Transitioning from modeling to moguling seemed to come naturally to Holloway; but he was guarding a secret: He wanted to act.


“Everyone was like, ‘You’re a model—now you can go act.’ And I’m like, ‘Fuck you,’” Holloway says. “I mean, I wanted to, but I was afraid of being a cliché.” Turns out the only thing clichéd about his thespian dreams was his abject failure. In eight years he appeared in bit parts on CSI and Walker, Texas Ranger and was killed on the first episode of Angel. Those were the highlights. The rest was a mix of aborted pilots (My Roommate Is a Big, Fat Slut—seriously) and eye-gougingly bad indies like Dr. Benny, a “gynecological comedy.” By 2004 he’d given up. Losing the role of Charles Ingalls in ABC’s Little House on the Prairie miniseries in a last-minute switcheroo was the final, crushing blow.


So he got his real-estate license. And if not for a last-gasp fax—a casting for some show about strangers on some spooky island—we might be talking about the best-looking Coldwell Banker rep in history. Still, it was a long shot. ABC, having seen him read for the Ingalls role, didn’t think Holloway could pull off Sawyer, who at this point was written as a slick, Prada-wearing gangster. “I wasn’t the dark horse,” he says. “I wasn’t even in the running.”



Pissed off, tired, his balls on the line, Holloway showed up for his reading with series creators J.J. Abrams and Damon Lindelof in a thermal and jeans and chewed through his lines like an angry gator. But while ripping into a chunky piece of dialogue, he blanked. And at that moment, all the frustration of eight years banging that pretty little head against the wall balled itself up into Holloway’s booted right foot. Crack! He punted a folding chair across the room. Abrams and Lindelof scrambled for cover. “Don’t hit me,” Abrams pleaded. “I ain’t gonna hit you,” Holloway hissed. And in that combustible few seconds, Sawyer was more or less born. Break out the leis.


“Jessie got home from work that night and I had the beads out, I had Hawaiian music on, and I was like, ‘Woo hoo! We’re going to Hawaii!’” Holloway says. “Of course, we didn’t think it’d last. That’s why we saved all our boxes.”


KNIFING THROUGH THE PALM-LINED CANALS BEHIND HOLLOWAY’S HOUSE, YOU FEEL like Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now. Wind in your hair, waves jostling your body, boats roaring past you, passing stereos blaring then bleeding into the engine’s hum. Holloway is talking real estate. Again. “I could make a fortune on that property,” he says of a dilapidated oceanfront home.


As we tie up at the bar, Pat, the man who built most of the docks around here, approaches Holloway: “You decided about that boat yet?”


This is the third time today he’s been asked this question. Will the TV star buy the solid, dependable $30,000 used boat, or will he splurge on the high-powered 26-foot $60,000 Boston whaler? “Yessica’s really been all over me about buying the new boat,” Holloway says, pulling the purple orchid from his second rum and ginger. “She says it won’t break us. But $60,000? Whoa!”


Seven years into the relationship—nearly two years into their marriage—the balance of power between Holloway and Kumala, 28, is solid. “I’ve always felt like, I’ll make the freakin’ money,” he says, “she builds the empire.” And the designs of this empire are exact. Despite his newfound popularity (his TV Guide cover outsold those of all other Lost cast members), he’s not jumping straight to some cash-grabbing starring vehicle. “I told Universal flat out, ‘Look, I don’t feel like I’m in a position to carry a movie right now,’” he says, tapping out another American Spirit. That’s why, he says, he took an ensemble role in the upcoming thriller Hellion.


Again, Holloway fears the cliché. He wants something small and poignant. A bit part in Sin City 2, or a role in a Coen-brothers movie. In the meantime, he’s bought a microphone and is pushing for voice work. “You know how much those guys get paid?” he asks. “And you don’t have to leave your house."


Home. That’s where most of the Lost loot has gone: into renovating their surprisingly non-gargantuan three-bedroom house. Some new paneling, some carpet, a Balinese gazebo next to the fire pit. Of course, the latest add-on—a high-tech, four-camera security system—wasn’t in the plans until last October, when a meth-head broke in armed with a 9-mm and robbed the couple. He got $35. “I wanted to say, ‘You want cash? Ask my fucking contractor, you piece of shit! Look around, you dick.’”


If Holloway still seems raw, it’s because he spent most of yesterday in a police station identifying the crook. The cops had just nabbed him; front page of the paper. “It’s hard to deal with, as a man,” he says. “Totally punk’d in your own home? I feel like I didn’t protect her. That feeling doesn’t go away.”


Thus, the alarm system. The cameras. “And,” Holloway says, “a few other tools.” Other tools? “Yeah,” he says, leaning back in his chair, cocking the cigarette like a gun. “You know . . . other tools?”



OKAY, HERE’S THE DEAL: WE’RE DRUNK. THESE FLOWERY RUM DRINKS HAVE WHIPPED US. And now the waitress is circling for an autograph and handing us certificates for free appetizers. And the two ladies from Texas are asking for photos (“Ah just luuuvvvv yer work!”). And the clouds are gnarling up to rain. Holloway just keeps the dimples on high beam. It’s time to retreat. To the boat!


Back at home, Kumala is downloading Brokeback Island, a spoof movie trailer that splices together hilariously homoerotic footage—shirts off, smiles, hands on pistols, lingering glances—of Jack and Sawyer. “You’ve made it, honey,” Kumala says as we pile through the back door. “You’ve been brokeback’d.”


While Holloway hits the head, Kumala shoots off an e-mail to Abrams, giving him the link. “My parents liked it better when Josh was gonna be a Realtor,” she says. “They figure it’s safer—you know, the whole Hollywood-marriage thing? But they see that fame hasn’t changed who he really is. They’re proud to have him as a son-in-law.”


Speaking of which, Mr. TV Guide saunters back into the room. Judging by the over-the-top crease in his brow and the cockeyed smile, he’s got something to say. “You know, Jessie,” he announces, hands fixed to his hip, “people are asking about the boat. They wanna know what I’m gonna do.”


Kamula rolls her eyes: “Fuck off, man.” She’s heard this bit before. “Just buy it. Now. You’ve been working your ass off your whole life.”


Holloway jolts, frozen in mock shock.


“Now, that’s what I like to hear, baby! C’mon, now!” That battle cry again. That roguish twinkle. That whaler is as good as bought.


Source : MenStyle

*Traduction à venir.

L'article est accompagné de photos très intéressantes (voir la gallerie d'image de Josh).

Une vidéo illustre la séance photo (sur le lien au-dessus, cliquez sur "click to see video")

_________________
Revenir en haut Aller en bas
Voir le profil de l'utilisateur http://lostfanfictions.actifforum.com
 
Article sur MenStyle
Revenir en haut 
Page 1 sur 1
 Sujets similaires
-
» Article Montres Russes dans Magazine Aviation
» Image et droit :Copie d'un article sur Internet
» L'article dans le Journal de Saône et Loire.
» Article sur Titanic-Titanic
» Article : Numismatique et Change N°412

Permission de ce forum:Vous ne pouvez pas répondre aux sujets dans ce forum
Un message à la mer... :: La série :: Les acteurs :: Josh Holloway-
Sauter vers: