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On a chilly Los Angeles morning in November, Brendan Fraser looks more like a friendly suburban sports dad than a movie star. In two weeks, he will turn 57. But today, in person, he comes across as so boyish and playful and hopped up on caffeine that he seems like he could — and just might — bench-press a minivan. Fraser may not have quite the same traffic-stopping fame of some of his peers, but when he walks into the restaurant of a posh Beverly Hills hotel, his hair still wet from a post-workout shower, nearly every neck in the room swivels in his direction. It must happen a lot, because Fraser hardly seems to notice.
Before he even sits down, Fraser tells the waitress (and anyone else within a thousand paces) that he’s famished. And his breakfast order bears this out: avocado toast, poached eggs, turkey sausage, orange juice, water and coffee “fully leaded, please.” Not that you’d notice, but Fraser says he’s running on fumes this morning. His earlier flight from the East Coast — he lives on a horse farm in Bedford, New York — was canceled at the last minute, so he’s operating on just a few hours of sleep in a strange bed and a new time zone. But none of this prevents him from launching into the first in a series of dad jokes. As he approaches the table, he makes a big show of grabbing the edge of the white tablecloth and pretending to yank it, like a magician who miraculously manages to keep all of the plates and silverware in place. It appears this is Fraser’s way of breaking the ice. He’s a ham … in the best possible way.
Other than shoveling down calories and channeling Houdini, Fraser is here to discuss the highs and lows of his 35-year career, his life off-screen and the personal struggles he’s dealt with along the way. If Brendan Fraser’s life were a movie, what kind would it be? You wouldn’t call it a tragedy. By any conceivable metric, the Oscar-winning actor has had a charmed and very well-compensated career. But it wouldn’t be a lighthearted romp, either. There have been too many whiplash-inducing twists and deflating turns for that. Too many stretches when the phone wasn’t ringing. Too many moments of depression and insecurity. Let’s call it an underdog drama with a later-in-life triumph arc.
He appears here on the eve of his latest movie, Rental Family, a charming crowd-pleaser that tells the story of an American expat working as an actor in Tokyo who lands a job with a rental-family service, meaning he’s hired to play the roles of friends and relatives in various (usually awkward) social situations.
In person, Fraser’s pale blue eyes convey empathy, decency, the traits we perhaps value most in a friend or relative. He’s 6 foot 2½ and more filled out than when most of us first laid eyes on him, in 1990s films like School Ties and The Mummy; his erect posture and bullish neck evoke a former college athlete who still keeps in good shape. He’s also surprisingly earnest. He’s not just a talker; he listens. Deeply. More than anything, though, Fraser seems to be the kind of guy who’s incapable of hiding his emotions — off-screen, at least. It’s all right there on the surface. What you see is what you get.
That sort of guilelessness isn’t something you can easily fake, even if you’re an actor. And it probably helps explain why Fraser has managed to so often shine in an unforgiving industry for the past 3½ decades. During that time, Fraser has appeared in sensitive, critically acclaimed dramas (Gods and Monsters), goofball kiddie comedies (George of the Jungle), popcorn-friendly blockbusters (three Mummy installments, with a fourth on the way) and award-winning prestige films (The Whale).
He’s the acting equivalent of a Swiss Army knife — always dependable, always prepared and always up to the task.
“For a long time there, I felt like I disappointed people because I hadn’t met their expectations,” he says. “But I’m still here, you know? This is what I do.”
Growing up all over, Fraser never got too comfortable. His constantly on-the-go family lived at the mercy of a mysterious figure they called Mr. Ottawa. Fraser’s parents were Canadian — his mother from Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, his father from the eastern Maritimes. “My mom was raised on the prairie, and my dad grew up in a blue-collar part of the country where you either mined coal or pulled lobster traps,” he says. Fraser’s dad worked for Canada’s tourism bureau, which basically forced the family to relocate whenever his bosses decided there was an American city that needed to discover the wonders of the Great White North. “We were at the whims of Ottawa,” Fraser says, between coffee refills. “Our family had a joke that Mr. Ottawa, whoever that was, had a dart and threw it over his shoulder onto a map, and that’s where we went.”
Fraser was born in Indiana during a brief moment in the late ’60s when the Canadian government apparently thought there might be a lot of Hoosiers with an appetite for maple syrup and poutine. Over time, the family also (briefly) settled in The Hague in the Netherlands and Seattle, among other places. As a result, Fraser and his three older brothers were always the new kids at school. “It’s just what we did,” he says. “I didn’t know another way. You just keep moving and keep reinventing yourself” — apt training for an actor.
Even though he was always trying to fit in and seeking approval, he ended up disappointing high school football coaches, because it turns out he’s a lover, not a fighter. “They all took one look at me and wanted me on the team. I was tall, and I seemed like an athlete,” he says. “But I didn’t like the part where you smashed into each other and got hurt. I mean, why? It just wasn’t for me.” He preferred solitary sports like the javelin, where, he says, “It’s just you and a spear, and you try to throw it farther each time. That, I understood.”
From his minor role in a high school play and watching a few others in London while vacationing with family, Fraser became enamored of acting. So he decided to apply to a small arts college in the Seattle area, where he was living at the time. He auditioned for the last remaining opening in the incoming class. Looking back, Fraser admits he was probably terrible, but when he called the admissions office the following week, he was told he was in.
The glamour part of the profession was elusive. Take his first paying job as an actor: “I played the mascot for Mr. Lock-it-Up’s self-storage units at the grand opening on Aurora Avenue in Seattle,” he says. As he tells this story, Fraser shakes his head and begins to laugh. “There was another guy dressed like a Keystone Kop, and I remember bringing my own makeup kit because I took it very seriously. Meanwhile, I’m standing by the side of the road next to a sign, beckoning drivers to come on in and pick out a storage-locker unit. I’ve never been flipped off more in my life!” Fraser made $14 an hour that day. He was over the moon.
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