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As Leonardo DiCaprio recovers from the craziness of the Oscars, I am curious, as I am always curious, about the near-total disconnection between star-dazzle and reality.
In the 10 years I've done celebrity interviews, I've met a fair number of the world's sexiest men. And while it is true that some of them have been very sexy it is also true that the majority were so far from sexy it was almost agonising. These men were lots of things - unhappy, embarrassed, unwell, unattractive - but by and large they were as far from the sex symbols we gaze at on the big screen as a snatched paparazzi shot is from a Vanity Fair cover.
Take Leonardo DiCaprio. I met him just over two years ago, the day before his 30th birthday, at the Hotel Bel-Air in Los Angeles. A fountain flashed gouts of water. Delicate blue blossoms hung against a hot November sky.
But in his suite it was gloomy. Like DiCaprio. He was nothing like the muscular hellraiser of Blood Diamond or the driven, alienated cop of The Departed. His face looked murky. He talked hesitantly, almost stuttering. A sweatshirt crumpled round his six-foot tall, thin body, and the shirt underneath had one collar sticking out, one tucked inside. His unflattering jeans were bunched round his waist on a belt. He reminded me of a year-old geek. When I told him which paper I was from he sucked in a breath.