Fall 1997 Volume II Issue 4

The first time I met Alec Baldwin I didn't recognize him, hard as that may be to believe. He was sitting deep in a friend's overstuffed couch in Pacific Palisades relaxing in over-sized jeans, a sweatshirt, and huge, white, slackly tied sneakers. I remember looking at him and thinking two things: "Wow. Who's that really cute guy?"

And - "Boy, he looks familiar. Do I know him?" Just out of range of my curious ears, he was chatting with a few men, trademark blue eyes flashing with good humor. And when he laughed, oh how those Baldwin dimples materialized in his cheeks. When I heard someone address him as Alec, I slapped my forehead and uttered a silent Homer Simpson: "DOH! Of course he looks familiar. That's Alec Baldwin, you boob."
Cut to Santa Monica. As we sit in a mobile home - the kind successful actors on location come to know as home - Baldwin seems happy to see me, after the brief glaze in his eyes dissolves into recognition. "How are you? What's it been? Two years?" he says excitedly. On this day there is no mistaking Alec Baldwin - the movie star. Again he is dressed casually, but with more of an East Coast bent: A long-sleeved dark brown and black, demi-checked shirt, black trousers and bitter-sweet chocolate loafers, is not the way Angelenos dress in August. And, though we'd love to talk about old friends and shoot the breeze - as only two displaced New Yorkers can (Baldwin has a home on Long Island) - his schedule is tight and we have to get to the business at hand: the business of being Alec Baldwin. We are here to talk about his latest film, The Edge, a psychological chillier written by David Mamet, a film which Baldwin hasn't yet seen put together and which won't open for two months; a film in which Baldwin reprises his ability to be not-so-nice a guy.