The World

GQ (Australia) - - CHAMPION -

“All I’m say­ing is, I don’t think they made this shit in seven days; or that any­body was bit­ing an apple and burn­ing any bushes.”

Like we said, con­tains traces of nuts. Thanks Iggy. Hamm’s comedic tal­ents gained trac­tion with a re­cur­ring role on 30 Rock. There, he played a love in­ter­est of Tina Fey – an in­ex­pli­ca­bly dense, stupidly hand­some doc­tor who’s com­pletely obliv­i­ous that the world bends, at ev­ery turn, to his hand­some­ness. In one episode, Fey at­tempts to shake him into re­al­ity: “Be­cause of your whole Dis­ney Prince thing, you live in a bubble where peo­ple do what you want and tell you what you want to hear. You’re in the bubble!” The joke was that Jon Hamm is so damn hand­some, that he re­ally would live in the bubble. Up close, all gran­ite jaw and dim­ples with gen­er­ous stub­ble, he does quite seem like a prime can­di­date for per­ma­nent bubble te­nancy. “I don’t think that’s at all true,” he chimes. “Any­body who knows me would not say that.” To­day, cer­tainly, the wait­resses don’t linger and flirt. The gawk­ers don’t gawk. Here, at least, on this West Hol­ly­wood rooftop, on this Mon­day af­ter­noon, Jon Hamm is out­side the bubble. Sure, there are bub­bly mo­ments in his life – the Merc, the Em­mys. But it seems there’s al­ways a part of Hamm with a limb cau­tiously out of the bubble. He’s too wary to be blissed out, to be wholly naïve. Be­cause even when you’ve been Don Draper, even when you’ve quit Café Med, even when you al­legedly pack the ‘Hamm-aconda’ and drive The Nicest Car You’ve Ever Been In, there’s still a reach. There’s still some hus­tle. “Am I con­sciously choos­ing what comes next? It’s hard to say. When you look at what’s out there in the fea­ture world… I mean, I’m not Den­zel Washington. I’m not Brad Pitt. And I’m not Matt Da­mon. And I’m not Ben Af­fleck. And I’m not Chris­tian Bale. Those heavy dra­mas go to those guys. And they don’t make a lot of them. There are three, four, five a year. The Spot­lights; The Fight­ers. What gets made a lot these days are su­per­hero movies and come­dies.” On paper, the past 18 months of Hamm’s life have been hell. He’s been in and out of in­pa­tient treat­ment for al­co­holism. He’s split from his long-time part­ner, too. “There’s stuff you wished would have turned out dif­fer­ently – whether it’s peo­ple dy­ing, or… but, that’s part of life too,” he says, steal­ing some time be­fore con­tin­u­ing. “For me, it’s about un­der­stand­ing that it’s not the end of the world. The sun’s go­ing to rise to­mor­row. You have to put your fuck­ing shoes on. Pull your pants up. Take a shower. Don’t wal­low. You want to tell me your sad story? We all have a sad story. What are you go­ing to do about it? “You know, a lot of peo­ple look at me and go, ‘Oh my God, you’re so lucky, you have this, you have that, you’re this, you’re that. Wanna trade places with me? Like, now?’ Sure. Do you want to do it when I was 23, and liv­ing out of my car? And had no par­ents or prospects? But that part led to this part.” The eter­nal op­ti­mist in you knows Hamm will be OK. You know he’ll take this as a teach­able mo­ment. Be­cause you don’t lose both par­ents be­fore you can legally drink and crawl over the Rock­ies in a Corolla with $150 and sit through Mary’s de­ci­sion on The Big Date and get Mad Men only to crum­ble now. You just don’t. While to­day’s meal is on GQ, Hamm’s quick to slap down an Amex. Then, on spot­ting us in re­cep­tion, af­ter we’ve wrapped, he of­fers a lift. And so, the valet gid­dily rounds the cor­ner. We hop in. It’s nice. Real nice. The Mercedes S Coupe AMG 63 – that’s the nicest car Hamm’s ever been in. We pull out into the Sun­set Boule­vard traf­fic. Hamm fires up the sound sys­tem. Wilco’s new CD un­furls through the speak­ers. Wait, no – as if by cos­mic fate, it’s play­ing on the ra­dio. Be­cause Jon Hamm still lis­tens to the ra­dio. We crawl down Sun­set Boule­vard, where everyone ap­pears to be a lit­tle hun­gover from last night’s Em­mys. A five-minute drive stretches beyond 15. Fi­nally, Hamm sees his open­ing and guns the Merc around an in­de­ci­sive sedan, giv­ing him a honk for good mea­sure. “What a guy,” he says through grit­ted teeth, floor­ing the car with glee. For a mo­ment, roar­ing to­wards the Chateau and the Hills, the in­ner kid, the in­ner fab­u­los­ity of Jon Hamm is easy to see. Our ho­tel’s across the street – we can jump out here, but Hamm’s hav­ing none of it. “No, I’ll spin it!” He pulls a slick u-turn into the ho­tel drive­way and waves away the valet with a po­lite, “No thank you, sir.” Then, Jon Hamm puts the car into drive and folds back into the Hol­ly­wood traf­fic with an easy grin, Wilco ring­ing in his ears and one foot firmly out­side the bubble.

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