The George Clooney Story, Part 2

ON THE EDGE OF A BUCOLIC ENGLISH VILLAGE ABOUT AN HOUR’S drive from London is a large house that's hidden from view by a cluster of old-growth trees. George Clooney lives in this house. Or, rather, it's one of his residences. In June, I took a train from Paris—where I had been attending Fashion Week—to Clooney's house for an Esquire cover shoot. At 9:00 A.M., Clooney walked out his back door and strolled to his pool house, where our photographer and stylist had established a base camp. Clooney was dressed in a dark-blue suit and white shirt, no tie, and carried a coffee mug. This was unusual. Most celebrities arrive to their photo shoots in casual gear because they're about to undress and put on clothes for the camera. Plus, the shoot was catered with gallons of coffee.

- Michael Sebastian

“Hey, everybody!” Clooney announced, then introduced himself to everyone on set. After the introductions, he asked: “Can I get anyone a coffee?” Someone from the crew said yes, and Clooney obliged by making the guy a cup on his own machine.

This was his house, and he was the consummate host.

Since that day in England, people have asked me, What is George Clooney like? My answer: “He’s just a dude.” He likes to regale you with stories and lean in close to whisper a joke. He's self-deprecating and curious; he was particularly interested in hearing stories from the photographer, Christopher Anderson, who had a previous life as a war photographer. When Clooney’s wife, Amal, stopped by, the actor lit up, introduced her to everyone, and then showed her the pictures we'd taken so far. She was just as charming and welcoming as her husband. “Anyone want a biscuit?” she asked.