That’s the thing that’s exciting and dangerous about him.” “He can charm the pants off the president, and then he can be with his crew and all of a sudden he’s a Southie street kid from Boston. “He’s a chameleon,” says Stephen Herek, the director of Rock Star. So which is the real Mark Wahlberg? Ahhhhhh, yes-zat is zee question. (She might buy the tattooed rosary beads and cross hanging from his neck, or even his parents’ initials on his right shoulder, but what would she make of Bob Marley on his left shoulder, not to mention Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird on his left ankle?) The new and improved Mark is polite, soft-spoken, and well mannered as well as pious, the kind of young man any girl would be proud to bring home to Mother-as long as Mom never got a glimpse of the tattoos that crawl across his rippling abs and delts. This is today’s Mark Wahlberg, you understand-the one who gets down on his knees and prays every night, as opposed to the old Mark Wahlberg, who spent his nights roaming the streets and took out a man’s eye with a metal hook when he was 16. It’s a long way from Dorchester to the Avenue George V, where Wahlberg faithfully attends services every Sunday morning at the august American Cathedral. And bitches like to suck it.”Īs he tells me earnestly about his churchgoing habits, his voice is low and smooth as butter, with no remaining trace of his Boston accent and few vestiges of the mean streets that spawned it in the rough part of town known as Dorchester. Wahlberg’s 1992 book, Marky Mark, begins, “I wanna dedicate this book to my dick,” and continues with such pearls of wisdom as a full-page diagram of the location of his infamous third nipple, an anatomical irregularity which doesn’t bother him because “it’s dope. An insolent ex-con whose main claim to fame was the awe-inspiring six-pack that landed his career-making stint as a Calvin Klein underwear model, Marky Mark combined the face of a choirboy with the body and attitude of a particularly nasty piece of rough trade, an explosive admixture that reduced screaming girls and gay guys to begging for mercy.īut even that angelic face was usually twisted into a sneer, with curled lip and squinting eyes (not to mention the hand whose signature gesture was squeezing his crotch) conveying one unmistakable message, loud and clear: Fuck You. It seems like only the other day that Marky Mark was a hip-hop punk better known for dropping trou and flaunting his underpants than for his success as a rap star, since it is doubtful that his band, the Funky Bunch, despite some undeniable hits, will ever make it into anyone’s pantheon of the all-time greats. But I’m not really scared of taking risks.” “I probably won’t realize what it means until it’s over and I get bashed for destroying a great part. “If Thandie Newton is playing Audrey Hepburn, why can’t I give Cary Grant a crack?” he says with a mischievous grin. He seems unfazed by the shoes he’s expected to fill. The Charade remake, retitled The Truth About Charlie, is due to arrive next year, with Wahlberg re-creating the mysterious character played by Cary Grant in the original. When he is unexpectedly tapped to replace the star of the real band, he is catapulted into the high-flying life of a genuine rock star-with dismaying consequences. This time he plays a rock fan so obsessed with the famous band he idolizes that he forms a “cover” band to imitate it for local audiences. Wahlberg’s well-muscled shoulders will also carry Rock Star, which is scheduled for fall release and co-stars Jennifer Aniston. ![]() Here he comes now, strolling jauntily past the potted palms toward a late lunch in the dining room, Le Cinq. Indeed, Jonathan Demme is in Paris at this very moment directing a remake of Stanley Donen’s Charade, the Cary Grant– Audrey Hepburn romantic thriller, and its star has been living at the George V since March while he works on his French, takes tango lessons, practices a duet with Charles Aznavour, and gets used to wearing berets. It’s the kind of hotel where you can easily imagine Cary Grant sauntering by. At teatime, the air is suffused with the sounds of privilege: the delicate clink of silver spoons against fine porcelain, the tinkling of a piano playing the theme from “The Umbrellas of Cherbourg,” the murmur of refined voices softened by damask and brocade. ![]() Gilded and opulent, the George V is a bastion of haute luxury just off the Champs-Élysées where crystal chandeliers twinkle in the lamplght and white orchids spill from vases in breathtaking profusion. ![]() Wahlberg on the cover of the August 2001 issue of V.F.
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