arrison
Ford lands his green Citation
jet on the tarmac of the Santa
Monica airport, then heads to
his sleek offices overlooking the
runway. The graying action star
looks fit and appealingly weathered. He wears a tiny silver hoop
in his left ear, which Han Solo fans
on the Web lament as an unhip
vestige of a midlife crisis.
Settling into a chair in a conference room, Ford leaves
the door ajar so he can keep a protective eye on his plane
as his copilot prepares to stow it in its hangar. He tears
hungrily into a couple of cartons of Muscle Milk. “Haven’t
had a chance to eat today,” he explains. It’s nearly 5 p.m.,
and earlier in the day he flew to Jackson Hole, Wyoming,
where he keeps a ranch, to attend the funeral of his friend
Blake Chapman, who died piloting a small plane in a snow-
storm. “Seventy-three-year-old cowboy, professional pilot.
Great guy. We spent a fair amount of time together flying
up into the wilderness.” Although Ford grieves the loss of
his friend, he finds one consolation: “He lived his life doing
what he wanted, right up to that moment.”
Perhaps the contemplation of mortality has triggered a
mellow mood; in conversation today, Ford shows no hint of
the irascibility for which he—and his screen characters—
are famous. Though he’d rather be wearing blue jeans than
the navy-blue suit he wore to the funeral, he’s cheerful and
relaxed—even, you might say, helpful. He readily dishes up
his sardonic wit: “More people are kicked to death by mules
than die in aviation accidents worldwide,” he says with his
familiar lopsided grin. He responds to questions deliber-
ately; when they veer into private areas, monosyllabically.
“I’m good at vague answers,” he concedes.
H
Like Blake Chapman, Ford is living the life he wants to
live. As one of Hollywood’s richest men, with a reported
$300 million fortune, Ford enjoys privileges—and faces challenges—his friend never did. But they shared a code of honor
rooted in the fundamental American values of reliability,
independence bordering on cussedness, and a commitment
to give the best of oneself to any task. “I take pleasure in being useful,” he says. A key to his character is that he was a
carpenter who became a movie star but never gave up being a
carpenter—literally or metaphorically. At 68, he succeeds as a
movie actor, family man, aviator, philanthropist, and builder.
Ford’s a classic now—“like old shoes,” as he puts it.
Three years out from having earned $65 million for his
most recent Indiana Jones film, he can claim one of the
most charmed acting careers ever, playing a raft of beloved
characters in timeless movies. In the Star Wars and Indiana
Jones series, as well as in such blockbusters as The Fugitive,
Presumed Innocent, and Clear and Present Danger, Ford
played the everyman, the reluctant hero drawn into ex-
traordinary circumstances. “He’s authentic,” says his
longtime friend Tom Brokaw, “the same kind of guy you
see on-screen. I get into trouble when I use this expression,
but Harrison is a man’s man. He is not a Hollywood dandy
in any form. He likes to take a belt from time to time, and he
has a wicked sense of humor.”
He still adores making movies. “I love acting probably
more than I did before,” Ford says. “I like working and
problem-solving with people on a story.” But the transition
from having his pick of plum action roles to finding intrigu-
ing character parts for a man his age has been tough. The
failure of last year’s Morning Glory—a comedy costarring
Diane Keaton in which his vain and aging news-anchor
character joins a morning show—hit Ford especially hard,
