George Clooney's house - Los Angeles

Katiedot wrote:Eagle eyed viewers can spot the bits filmed at George's LA house in this ZZ Top video which made as part of the From Dusk Till Dawn promo, so this is from a while ago

They filmed on his tennis/basketball court:

it's me wrote:[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]

This is his pool!

lucy wrote:We have pics somewhere about the remodeling of George's house, the pool and patio area has been modernized, from the pool with curves to the new one. Some of the above pics are taken before remodel.

playfuldeb wrote:George's kitchen, which might possibly be bigger than my entire apartment


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aflower1325 wrote:

it's me wrote:[You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]

This is his pool!  

:shock:HOLY POOL BOY!!!

Maggy wrote:

Katiedot wrote:Eagle eyed viewers can spot the bits filmed at George's LA house in this ZZ Top video which made as part of the From Dusk Till Dawn promo, so this is from a while ago

They filmed on his tennis/basketball court:

THIS ONE

Picachu wrote:

Maggy wrote:

Katiedot wrote:Eagle eyed viewers can spot the bits filmed at George's LA house in this ZZ Top video which made as part of the From Dusk Till Dawn promo, so this is from a while ago

They filmed on his tennis/basketball court:

THIS ONE

They forgot his tattoo

Juliette Hardy wrote:ZZ TOP IS AWESOME!!  

Video is great. George Clooney & Salma Hayek look amazing together; like a beautiful couple.  

And I like him as a leather-clad badass too, though nowadays, being in his 50s, he has a more subdued suave look.
The property seems to be surrounded by lush green foliage.

I have done a few of these things—celebrity profiles—before. I have interviewed famous people in hotel rooms and offices, in bars and in restaurants, even, once, on top of a bridge in Sydney, Australia. Where I have not often interviewed them is at their homes. The home is the turkey bacon of the celebrity profile. It generates, if not love, then at least a sense of gratitude akin to what a dog must feel when allowed on the couch. Leonardo DiCaprio met me in a vast hotel conference room, empty but for an end table and two chairs.

George Clooney invited me to his house.

Of course he did. What distinguishes Clooney from other famous people is that he reliably acts as you wish other famous people would act and does what you wish other famous people would do: often the right thing. His house is of a piece with its owner. It might be described as a man-cave writ large. It is slightly undomesticated. You have to climb to get there, up a switchbacked driveway sentried by security cameras and crowded with greenery that he refuses to cut. You can see why he says he does not have many intruders; you can also see why, when he does have intruders, he says, no shit, they usually do their intruding “dressed as trees.”

You do not see all that much of the house, even when you finally summit the driveway, so absorbed is it into its surrounding three acres and the park that begins where the three acres end. What you see is just enough Tudory brick to establish it as a home of Hollywood heritage, and what you see most of all is what welcomes you: the mouth of the three-car garage, open to reveal the only three cars George Clooney could possibly own. There is the gleaming gray Lexus. There is the black Porsche Carrera, sheathed like a sidearm in a black cover. And then there is the 1959 red Corvette convertible, glinting as comically as a hero’s tooth in an old Saturday-afternoon serial. For an idea of Clooney’s pedigree, you need an idea of the Corvette’s: It is original to his family. Clooney’s father, Nick, bought it new, back when he was a radio broadcaster in Lexington, Kentucky. George grew up with it as one of the family cars, and it now has pride of place as a sort of Playboy Philosophy on wheels.

Beyond the garage stands the wooden front door, massive, slablike, arched, trellised with vines, and battering-ram resistant. To say that they don’t make doors like that anymore is to understate the case; they don’t make trees like that anymore. Some mogul must have ditched what was left of his soul for that door, and now it gives the house the stately air of a ruin behind which might very well lurk Gloria Swanson. And yet when it opens, there stands Clooney’s assistant, Angel, and when she walks through the dark-wood-and-leather shadows of the house to the kitchen, there stands her boss, trying to make a cup of coffee on a machine he’s forgotten how to use.

[ . . . ]

He ekes out a coffee, makes himself a tea, and takes a seat on the couch in his living room, with a large-screen TV broadcasting NFL highlights from the mantel of a stone fireplace, and the high peaked ceiling crossed by rough-hewn timbers apparently salvaged from the Fortress of Solitude after Superman decided to modernize.

[ . . . ]

On the walls of Clooney’s home, there are a lot of photographs from powerful people, such as President Obama, who have written him in friendship and in gratitude. There is also a framed selection of neckties that once belonged to one powerful person in particular, John F. Kennedy. There are also many striking black-and-white photographs of Dino and Sammy horsing around in tuxedos. They go with the bar, which is arrayed with a swank skyline of liquors and cordials and on which is perched the figure of the fox that Wes Anderson used for the stop-motion animation of Fantastic Mr. Fox—Clooney was Mr. Fox; Mr. Fox was Clooney.

And then, near the front door, there is the most important artifact in a house that is both full of them and, in its own right, artifactual. It’s an old piece of tile, white, with some words baked on it in black. The rest of the stuff on Clooney’s walls, well, as he says, “You gotta remember that part of my life is people give me things and I put them on the wall, right?” He knew Sammy and Dean, a little; he knew them as a kid, growing up Rosie’s nephew, but even those photos came to him as gifts—“I think I was given all of them during the Ocean’s period. And I like the photos, so I put them on the wall because I thought they were cool and they were fun, but I don’t think and live and breathe the Rat Pack life.”

The tile is different. The tile he found after he bought the house in 1995, with ER money. A former owner left it behind. On it is written the house’s street number. And over the address, in paint-brushed print of aching domesticity, it says THE GABLES.

annemarie wrote:I don't think that's his house it looks different than what I've seen.