“I’m going to try the Katsu burger, but I’m going to do it like the classic Hollywood actor, without the bun,” James Marsden says with a self-aware laugh from the seat across from me at Kimika, in the Nolita neighborhood of Manhattan. This I have come to know as classic Marsden: someone who isn’t just comfortable skewering the perception of an entitled, ego-centric actor, but who frickin’ loves to do it.
He sits in a posture that’s somehow relaxed and attentive, his eye contact so disarming that I now acutely understand why PopSugar once did a story titled “32 Times James Marsden Looked Drop-Dead, Disney-Prince Hot.” In fact, I’m ready to add a 33rd time. Marsden is commonly approached on the street with the line, “Aren’t you the guy from…?” He waits as fans shuffle through the possibilities: Cyclops in four X-Men films? Corny Collins in Hairspray? The other guy in The Notebook? They often come up short, but he doesn’t mind. There’s a playful, easy-going nature to Marsden that’s surprising given the three decades he’s spent working in an industry known for chewing up and spitting out its actors.
Take, for instance, an idea he has to start his own tequila company that’s really a satire on the self-seriousness of some of his contemporaries. “I want it to be the shittiest tequila I can find,” he explains with the same child-like glee he displayed as Prince Eric in several Enchanted films. “Plastic bottle with a piece of masking tape on it that says ‘Tequila’ and it’s $6 a liter. ‘This tastes like shit. Marsden’s Tequila. But it’ll get you fucked up.’”
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