Excerpts from Vanity Fair, July 2009 "Not the DaVinci of our Time?" by Christine Everhart
"Ask anyone who has actually met Anthony Stark in person and they'll give you a different word to describe the current CEO to Stark Industries. Idealistic. Callous. Industrialist. Futurist. Womanizer. Friend. Enigmatic. Pragmatic. In my four months following the daily life of Stark, I came to realize that he is all of these things and none. It just depends on which lens you're looking through when you meet him.
Mine was that of a hard-lined journalist who, I admit, went in with liberal guns blazing, eager to reveal the War Profiteer behind America's favorite Playboy philanthropist.
My first interview with Stark is scheduled for a Thursday morning in July 2008, twelve weeks ahead of the Israeli offensive and six months before the 12/27 suicide bombing in Washington, DC. I arranged to meet him at his Malibu home because the man is notorious for showing up late when he shows up at all, but of course Stark has plans of his own.
When I pull up to the gates, he is waiting in his Rolls-Royce, or rather on it. “We’re taking the bus,” Stark announces with debonair authority, jumping from his perch on the hood. What he means is that his chauffeur will drive us to a bus stop on Santa Monica Blvd. and from there we’ll make our way to Stark Industries’ University Park campus. When I ask for an explanation, Stark makes vague noises about his driver giving the run-around to reporters lying in wait down the hill—the FBI enforces a strict no-man’s land policy around the mansion for reasons of national security—while we sneak in downtown. “If they think I’m in my office, they have helicopters circling the place all day long. It drives my people crazy.” I get the sense that Stark is already on thin ice with “his people” and that this is an earnest attempt to avoid driving them any crazier.
On the ride into town, I don’t have the opportunity to ask any questions, because Stark won’t let me get a word in edgewise. He has only just returned from the G8 Hokkaido summit where he was asked to speak alongside Bono, and he alternates between cool intensity when rattling off a torrent of food shortage and energy need figures, and bright-eyed enthusiasm when speaking of his co-presenter. “We’ve agreed to do some things,” Stark says without giving specifics. “The trick is to once and for all sell them on the idea that energy and food security are just another way of thinking about defense. Bono knows I can help with that, so we're going to talk.”
It's hard not to imagine Bono pouncing on the freshly engaged Stark like a raptor on wounded prey.
I must have missed some silent communication between Stark and his chauffeur, because moments later the car stops and Stark jumps out without warning, reaches back in, and drags me out by the wrist. “Walk natural,” he says, whipping out a baseball hat from the back pocket of his jeans. He leads us on a merry chase for a couple of blocks around Santa Monica Blvd., backtracks, and crosses the road as the bus is pulling in. I am beginning to suspect a joke at my expense, and when I see that his cap reads, “I’m with Iron Man,” I think I have my answer, but no. It’s both simpler and more complicated than a childish prank on a journalist.
Stark pays for our fares—and asks the driver about them Lakers—finds us a couple of seats at the back of the bus and brushes mine clean with a flourish, using the sleeve of his sweater. I ask if the deception was really necessary, and he winks and smiles. He notices me staring at his hat. “I presume you’ve heard of reverse psychology? I call this reverse stealth. While you’re staring at this hat in disbelief—honey, you're doing it now—I make my exit. As my grandmother would have said, ‘Tony, my boy, chutzpah always pays.’” I didn't realize Stark had met either of his grandmothers, and I say so. “Doesn’t everybody have a grandmother?” is the perplexed, and perplexing, answer.
Within minutes he is chatting up two middle-aged women who dredged up the courage to approach him. The conversation unfolds in rapid-fire Spanish, which I can’t follow. Before long, all the passengers have gravitated towards the end of the bus, showering Stark with the religious mix of respect and awe due local aristocrats who moonlight as superheroes, and while Stark does bask in the attention, and while there can be no doubt that, as soon as we step off the bus, the little people of Los Angeles will be forgotten in favor of Stark’s number one concern—namely, himself—in that moment, Stark sincerely desires their company and their happiness. The man may be self-involved—to be fair, there’s a lot of self to get involved in—but he thrives on human contact. By that point in his life, the aftermath of his experiences in Afghanistan and the media frenzy triggered by “the” press conference have drastically cut into his social life. Later, when I ask him what the discussion was about, he shrugs. “Oh, same old same old. Mac versus PC, BMW versus Audi, Taittinger versus Bollinger...”
I begin to wonder if Stark agreed to be shadowed by a reporter because he’s lonely."
"Ask anyone who has actually met Anthony Stark in person and they'll give you a different word to describe the current CEO to Stark Industries. Idealistic. Callous. Industrialist. Futurist. Womanizer. Friend. Enigmatic. Pragmatic. In my four months following the daily life of Stark, I came to realize that he is all of these things and none. It just depends on which lens you're looking through when you meet him.
Mine was that of a hard-lined journalist who, I admit, went in with liberal guns blazing, eager to reveal the War Profiteer behind America's favorite Playboy philanthropist.
My first interview with Stark is scheduled for a Thursday morning in July 2008, twelve weeks ahead of the Israeli offensive and six months before the 12/27 suicide bombing in Washington, DC. I arranged to meet him at his Malibu home because the man is notorious for showing up late when he shows up at all, but of course Stark has plans of his own.
When I pull up to the gates, he is waiting in his Rolls-Royce, or rather on it. “We’re taking the bus,” Stark announces with debonair authority, jumping from his perch on the hood. What he means is that his chauffeur will drive us to a bus stop on Santa Monica Blvd. and from there we’ll make our way to Stark Industries’ University Park campus. When I ask for an explanation, Stark makes vague noises about his driver giving the run-around to reporters lying in wait down the hill—the FBI enforces a strict no-man’s land policy around the mansion for reasons of national security—while we sneak in downtown. “If they think I’m in my office, they have helicopters circling the place all day long. It drives my people crazy.” I get the sense that Stark is already on thin ice with “his people” and that this is an earnest attempt to avoid driving them any crazier.
On the ride into town, I don’t have the opportunity to ask any questions, because Stark won’t let me get a word in edgewise. He has only just returned from the G8 Hokkaido summit where he was asked to speak alongside Bono, and he alternates between cool intensity when rattling off a torrent of food shortage and energy need figures, and bright-eyed enthusiasm when speaking of his co-presenter. “We’ve agreed to do some things,” Stark says without giving specifics. “The trick is to once and for all sell them on the idea that energy and food security are just another way of thinking about defense. Bono knows I can help with that, so we're going to talk.”
It's hard not to imagine Bono pouncing on the freshly engaged Stark like a raptor on wounded prey.
I must have missed some silent communication between Stark and his chauffeur, because moments later the car stops and Stark jumps out without warning, reaches back in, and drags me out by the wrist. “Walk natural,” he says, whipping out a baseball hat from the back pocket of his jeans. He leads us on a merry chase for a couple of blocks around Santa Monica Blvd., backtracks, and crosses the road as the bus is pulling in. I am beginning to suspect a joke at my expense, and when I see that his cap reads, “I’m with Iron Man,” I think I have my answer, but no. It’s both simpler and more complicated than a childish prank on a journalist.
Stark pays for our fares—and asks the driver about them Lakers—finds us a couple of seats at the back of the bus and brushes mine clean with a flourish, using the sleeve of his sweater. I ask if the deception was really necessary, and he winks and smiles. He notices me staring at his hat. “I presume you’ve heard of reverse psychology? I call this reverse stealth. While you’re staring at this hat in disbelief—honey, you're doing it now—I make my exit. As my grandmother would have said, ‘Tony, my boy, chutzpah always pays.’” I didn't realize Stark had met either of his grandmothers, and I say so. “Doesn’t everybody have a grandmother?” is the perplexed, and perplexing, answer.
Within minutes he is chatting up two middle-aged women who dredged up the courage to approach him. The conversation unfolds in rapid-fire Spanish, which I can’t follow. Before long, all the passengers have gravitated towards the end of the bus, showering Stark with the religious mix of respect and awe due local aristocrats who moonlight as superheroes, and while Stark does bask in the attention, and while there can be no doubt that, as soon as we step off the bus, the little people of Los Angeles will be forgotten in favor of Stark’s number one concern—namely, himself—in that moment, Stark sincerely desires their company and their happiness. The man may be self-involved—to be fair, there’s a lot of self to get involved in—but he thrives on human contact. By that point in his life, the aftermath of his experiences in Afghanistan and the media frenzy triggered by “the” press conference have drastically cut into his social life. Later, when I ask him what the discussion was about, he shrugs. “Oh, same old same old. Mac versus PC, BMW versus Audi, Taittinger versus Bollinger...”
I begin to wonder if Stark agreed to be shadowed by a reporter because he’s lonely."