Colin Farrell, it should be noted, makes a good entrance. Walking with his shoulders back, a cigarette dangling from a hand heavy with rings, he pushes through the door of Tobacco Road as if it were on saloon-style hinges, his brown biker boots kicking the floor. Inside, the Sunday drinkers nod and Farrell gets a bro-hug from the bartender, a Latino kid in a baseball cap who recommends the back yard, where there’s a little shade and a lot of privacy.
“Two Coronas, then,” Farrell says and struts on back. He’s been in Miami for a month to shoot Michael Mann’s Miami Vice, though principal photography still hasn’t started. So Farrell found this dark bar on a quiet side street, and Tobacco Road, which claims to be the oldest drinking establishment in the city, immediately became the actor’s home away from hotel. Farrell is starring in Vice with Jamie Foxx, another hormone-driven star who wears his bachelorhood like a badge. It’s not hard to imagine the two putting a serious dent in the local female population, and if you believe the tabloids, that’s exactly what they’ve done.
Farrell, though, doesn’t really want to talk about girls—at least not specifically. He’s warier than he used to be of the womanizing stories, of the Britney and Lindsay rumors, of the loose tongues that have contributed to his reputation as Hollywood’s most famous carouser. But it is that reputation, of course, that keeps the press salivating. It didn’t take long for Farrell’s Miami location to leak, and within days the paparazzi were lurking. This doesn’t bother Farrell—unless he’s with his son, 2-year-old James, the product of a short affair with model Kim Bordenave.
One day, Farrell explains, he and his son were at the beach when the actor spotted a guy lingering on a balcony high above. “So I gave Jimmy to my assistant,” he says, “and ran into the lobby in shorts, dripping wet.”
Here, Farrell gets up from his chair and acts out a frantic march, making a bing sound to indicate his entering the elevator. “I got to the corridor, ran down, and saw this cunt. He walks right by me. I’m steaming. I know it’s the fucker. So I ran back to the lift, got in his face, ripped his bag off his shoulder. His fucking camera’s in there. He was shaking. Security came and took his film, but he must have had some in his socks because the photos got out.” Farrell is still fuming at the memory.
“I get the whole thing,” he says, sitting back down to his Corona. “I’m not saying cry for me. But they can be savage, especially in L.A.”
One way to solve all this—or at least keep a lower profile—would be for Farrell to actually settle down. But can a guy who hasn’t had a relationship in six years, who’s spent—by his own estimation—68 of the past 72 months in hotels, ever circle back?