‘The problem with fame,’ Ethan Hawke muses, ‘is that it’s a kind of formaldehyde. I see it all the time with actors and writers – they get stuck in the period where they received the most accolades. Some guy who was a movie star in 1984 still dresses like it’s 1984, still says the same things, is still stuck on the same girls.’ Hawke, by all accounts, is not that guy. ‘I think you have to move on,’ he says, when we meet for coffee at a Brooklyn cafe. Today he looks less the pretty boy pin-up of the 90s and more your average American dad, in trainers, khaki trousers and a baseball cap. He’s the guy at the back, slightly greying, tearing off pieces of his bagel and dunking…
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Red UK (Digital) - 1 Issue, July 2018