“Eddie created this massive chart, which he had to internalize, that itemized Stephen’s stages of illness,” says Marsh. And when he does that”-his cheek twitches minutely-“it stops on a letter.” “So he now has the computer screen, his glasses, and a sensor on the glasses a cursor going across the alphabet. “Stephen, when I saw him, could only use this muscle,” Redmayne says, tapping his right cheekbone. Based on a memoir by Hawking’s former wife, Jane, the film follows the scientist from his bicycling student days and through both the flowering of his genius and the depredations of his condition. The Theory of Everything, though, was like nothing he had done before. In 2002 he played Viola in a Globe Theatre production of Twelfth Night his performance as Mark Rothko’s assistant in John Logan’s 2009 play Red won him an Olivier and a Tony and his Richard II under the direction of Michael Grandage at the Donmar Warehouse three years ago was widely hailed as masterful. for a number of costume dramas and as a stage actor. “The most success I think I had was doing a knitting magazine that was sent to grannies,” he says, “but after my huge, heady days in the knitting books, I left it behind.” (A handful of years later, Christopher Bailey brought Redmayne out of modeling retirement to appear in his character-driven ensemble campaigns for Burberry.)īefore breakout roles in the 2011 indie My Week with Marilyn and the following year in Tom Hooper’s Les Misérables film, the 32-year-old Redmayne was best known in the U.K. At university, Redmayne was scouted by a model agent. I’m not the first person to notice this, of course. Green eyes, gorgeous russet hair, freckles. The huge buzz about his new film, The Theory of Everything, in which he plays the British theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking, who suffers from the debilitating neurological disease ALS, is also interesting: The noise coming out of the Toronto International Film Festival, where it premiered in September, was clamorous. Very few men are heart-stoppingly beautiful, in the way glorious women or racehorses or specimen roses unarguably are, so meeting a bona fide male dazzler, with fan sites sprawled across the Web, is interesting. When I hold out my hand to him for the check (_Vogue’_s check), he raises an eyebrow, signifying “as if,” and crumples it. He turns to ask: “And you? Anything? Sure? OK,” all in a kind of sign language. On a boiling day in London, Eddie Redmayne scoots into the bar of the Young Vic theater, spots me, shakes hands, and runs to the counter.
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