SO I TOLD THE reservation lady at Avis that I was going on a date with a beautiful actress and that I needed a car that would help me seduce her. Perhaps I should have been more specific. I'm not exactly sure which actress the rental lady was guessing I was trying to impress (Tara Reid?), but I was now pulling into Rachel Weisz's driveway in a cherry-red Oldsmobile Alero. True, it does have one of those rear air spoilers. But would that be enough to lure a famous actress into its rather cramped backseat? I had doubts.
Despite what my friends and anyone who hears my outgoing message might be led to believe, this date did not come about after Rachel admiringly slipped me her digits at Jamba Juice. Esquire was the matchmaker. And like an overbearing grandmother, the magazine seemed to actually believe that if I just followed its advice, I could get this stylish, smart thirty-two-year-old British woman, this star of The Mummy and About a Boy, to fall for me. Or maybe my editor just wanted to see me horribly humiliated. In any case, I was given an advance copy of "187 Things You Don't Know About Women" and positively assured that I would have no trouble securing Rachel's heart, mind, and body as long as I stuck to such diligently researched nuggets of wisdom as Trite but true: Chicks dig hot cars and Calluses, yes. Manicures, no. I decided to ignore The world would be a much better place if more men wore eyeliner à la Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. There's only so much a man will do for his job.
When I pick up Ms. Weisz (pronounced "Vice"), I introduce myself, though, truth be told, we actually met a few years back, when I had fourth-row seats to the New York stage production of Neil LaBute's The Shape of Things. I made what I thought was some excellent eye contact with her. Still, it seems she can't place me. In the play, she starred as Evelyn, an alluringly sadistic art student who seduces and then eviscerates a hapless Paul Rudd. Since then, she's portrayed similarly intense, ambitious women (Confidence, Runaway Jury) whose common characteristic is that they eat men for breakfast. This does not put me at ease.
I nervously hand her a bouquet of monochromatic tulips (as recommended by Esquire). "Oh, flowers. For me? Are you serious?" she says, clearly a bit startled. I am, she tells me, the first non-Japanese journalist to ever present her with a gift. I turn her attention to the tulips themselves. "Just lovely," she declares. And she seems to genuinely appreciate them, though I do keep in mind that she's an actress. And a good one.
I lead her to my cherry-red Olds. If ever there were an opportunity for serious mocking, this would be it. Worse, she's no stranger to cool cars: In London, she owned a seventies Jaguar Sovereign. "I like a car with some muscle because I like driving fast," she says. "I've been told I drive like a man. I suppose that sounds quite sexist, doesn't it? Do you think women are good drivers?"
"Uh, well." So far, the guidebook has been doing okay, so I heed its advice here: Never question how we drive. "Some of my best friends are female drivers," I tell her.
"This car has a kind of coolness," she says.
"Really?" I say.
"Yes, well, a kind of inverted coolness..."
Inverted coolness. I had to push it.
I drive to the restaurant and drop Rachel off at the curb. As I start to turn into the lot, I realize--shit!--this isn't the place. It appears to be some sort of funeral home. I downgrade my expectations for the evening from wild sex to the avoidance of litigation. Rachel gets back in the car and smiles the whole thing off. Still, I need to recover. So, again following the edicts, I bust out a mix CD I've made her.
As instructed, I did not include Journey. Instead, I tried to combine my own tastes with what I knew about her past: She was born and raised in London in the seventies (I threw on the Who and the Buzzcocks); her parents divorced when she was a teenager (the Smiths), at which point she rebelled (Wire); she later went to Cambridge (Billy Bragg), majored in English lit (Pavement), and founded a theater company (Neutral Milk Hotel). And, of course, I threw in a little Jay-Z--because when in doubt, that's what you do.
"It's a really beautiful gift," she says. I assume she's referring to the sentiment, not the shiny disc itself. "Your intuition was very good. I love Billy Bragg. I love Sleater-Kinney; I think they are just amazing. And the Smiths are probably one of my favorite bands of all time." Morrissey again gets the girl.
"Neutral Milk Hotel? Hmm, I think Paul Rudd introduced me to them. He's really into music. He would bring his guitar and sing backstage every night."
"Wasn't that annoying?" I ask.
"Not at all. You and him would really get on."
Now, in "187 Things You Don't Know About Women," it states: If a woman says you would get along with her boyfriend, that means she wants to sleep with you. Nowhere, however, does it explain what it means when a girl compares you to Paul Rudd. I'm not sure what to think.
We arrive at L'Orangerie, a gilded French restaurant so aggressively romantic, it looks like the Hollywood set of a gilded French restaurant. It has huge murals of chteaus and a flower arrangement the size of my New York apartment. Or as Rachel puts it, "It's incredibly posh." We are guided to a candlelit table.
So far, Rachel hasn't emasculated me. In fact, she's been incredibly gracious. So where'd all these bitch roles come from? "It just kind of happened," she says. "In Envy [a new movie with Jack Black and Ben Stiller that comes out this month], I play someone very light and dizzy and sweet, and I really would like to do it again. Playing tough is a real stretch for me, but somehow I've been cast as all these tough American girls."
And what does she think of us strapping American guys? "American men are certainly more direct than British men." Okay, point taken. "Here, there's much less ritual to get through, much less bizarre courtship. We actually don't date in England. You go out with a guy, and you never know whether it's a date or not. Also, I think American men listen better than English men."
Listen. A good suggestion. I listen intently as she goes through the menu. Seeing that she's an actress, I'm sure she'll request at least one tofu substitution. I'm wrong. "I've been craving red meat today," she says, though in the end we decide to share the buttery sole for two. This ordering chemistry has me giddy.
Under normal circumstances, Rachel and I would slowly proceed to learn each other's hopes, fears, and dreams in a trickle of first-date small talk. But the fact is, I've only got a few hours to seduce the lady, so we're gonna need to accelerate the sharing. I whip out a copy of Esquire's survey of American women, which asks the tough (but critical) questions. They're a bit crass for a first date, yes, but I'll just blame my editor.
Me: If there were no men, would you still wear a bra?
Rachel: Yes. It's more comfortable, especially if you have to run for a bus or something. In London, it seems like you're always running for the bus.
Me: Under what circumstances would you flash your breasts for the camera? The choices are: if you just felt like it, if you were drunk, if you were drunk at Mardi Gras, or if you got points on the back end.
Rachel: I guess if it were any, it would be Mardi Gras. I love the South.
Me: Not in a movie?
Rachel: Well, I have once, in Stealing Beauty. Change subject.
Me: From one to ten, rate your level of interest in a little light bondage.
Rachel: I'm not gonna tell you that.
Me: Okay, but can I remind you that you did pose naked with a live snake this weekend? The most common answer was a ten.
Rachel: Okay, well, that's a fair answer.
Me: Do you find male genitalia attractive?
Rachel: Yes, it's beautiful.
Me: In which state?
Rachel: Both. I'm a big fan.
Me: Good answer. Are you more likely to check out the bodies of other men or women?
Rachel: Women.
A relief. After all, this is a woman who has worked with some of the best-looking leading men in Hollywood: Jude Law, both Fiennes brothers, and the annoyingly irresistible John Cusack. As much as I want to know whom I'm up against, I don't necessarily want to cast myself in such attractive shadows. So I bring up Dustin Hoffman, whom she's worked with in both Confidence and Runaway Jury.
"It's amazing that someone of his caliber seems to care as much as he did when he was eighteen," she says. "It's a really attractive quality to be around. I had this scene with him in Confidence, and he just came up and, totally unscripted, touched my breast. It was great." Wait, is this some kind of a subtle invitation? But I shake off the thought; improvisational groping only flies if you've got Oscars. I stick to feeling out the competition: Is she still close with any of her former costars?
"I'm friendly with several, especially Jude," she says, "but I tend to be closer with the directors."
Now, for those of us who, aesthetically at least, skew more toward Peter Jackson than Jude Law, this seems like good news. Unfortunately, I have a feeling she's alluding to her closeness with one director in particular: Darren Aronofsky, the director of Pi and Requiem for a Dream. Yes, she tells me, they're still together and have been for about three years. It's a significant obstacle. But at least I know she digs Jewish men.
I'm left no choice but to try to buy her affections with some of the gifts Esquire has provided me. The first one she unwraps is a Pucci scarf.
"That's so chic. I think women really like to be given things that they see in the store and admire but would never buy for themselves. Things that are beautiful but totally unnecessary."
I tell her I've also written her a poem.
"Really, did you? Oh, that's very, uh...did you really?"
I hand her a card with my verse. Unlike the CD or the flowers or the Pucci scarf, however, this gesture appears to alarm her. She reads the lines: "When He created you lying in bed / He knew what He was doing / He was drunk and He was high / And He created the mountains and the sea and fire / At the same time."
All Rachel can say is, "You've got very unorthodox handwriting." Not a big success. Maybe it'd be better if I fess up: I didn't actually write the poem; it's Bukowski.
"Oh," she says. "I just read Hollywood, his book about the making of Barfly. Mickey Rourke, now there's a guy with charisma."
Mickey Rourke? Now I'm confused. What kind of man does she like? Harley-riding, chipmunk-cheeked movie stars or anxious writers? I hope that my next gift will sway her toward the latter. Unfortunately, someone at Esquire has some seriously freaky taste. Instead of the chocolates or watch or any of the other romantic gifts included in the gift guide, Rachel is now holding one Magic Cone, a paper device that claims to allow women to pee standing up. Desperate, I try to sell her on it: "Uh, I think it's disposable."
"It's kind of like having a penis for a bit, isn't it?" she says, which somehow sounds good when she says it. "Hmm, I wouldn't necessarily recommend this one as a first-date gift, though."
Fair enough. I've only one gift left, and she starts to unwrap it. As soon as she glimpses what's underneath the paper, she stops short and lets out a gasp. An actual gasp. "Oh my gosh, the blue Tiffany's box!" I can't help wondering if it isn't a bit tired. "We can never tire of the blue box," she explains. I warn her not to get too excited; it's not like a ring or a plane or anything, just a bottle of perfume. "It doesn't matter if it's a forty-dollar key chain," she says. "Let me explain: My mother is this insanely gracious gift receiver, and whenever she opens a gift--every gift--she says, 'Oh, just the wrapping would have been enough! Just the ribbon, just the bow alone!' Now, that's dramatic. But in the case of the blue box, it's true."
I seem to be riding high, and since we've just finished up dessert, I risk it all with a final question from Esquire. True or false: You are more likely to have adventurous sex after receiving a gift of jewelry.
"False."
"Okay, what about after receiving a fragrance from Tiffany's?"
"Sorry."
She may not be superficial, but I'm not giving up yet. Let's say a dolly had collapsed on Darren, taking him out of the picture. Would I--enhanced by "187 Things You Don't Know About Women"--have landed her in the sack?
"First I've got to listen to your mix," she says. "But probably."
Heartened, I go in for the goodnight kiss. I get two of them, one on either cheek, closer to the lips than the ears.
