Somehow he always looks pissed off, wrung out, put upon. And when Statham looks at an audience of one, really looks at you, it feels like you may be in a little trouble. He swears the way you wish everybody could, the way some people hope to use exclamation points, as an imprint of enthusiasm. He is not a big man-he is fit, light on those bare feet, and younger looking than his forty-seven years-and he doesn't stop talking. He is folded into a chair, shrinking downward, feet bare. It's wider rather than deeper, so that every room feels long from left to right and shallow from front to back. His house spreads the broad way along a downward pitch in the Hollywood Hills. The terrazzo on which Statham sits is a garden of high-end rattan furnishings.
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