Beau Garrett Is a Woman We Love
The sexy star of Tron breaks into our house, and we are not complaining. We actually have several kinds of evidence to share….
By Tom Chiarella

Esquire Magazine – December 2010

Beau Garrett is eating oatmeal in Los Angeles. She’s very happy they have oatmeal on the menu. She walked here from somewhere — she claims she’s the best walker in the world, says Socrates did his best teaching while he walked. She wanted to bring her dog this morning, but she didn’t. She rubs her wrist.

Esquire: What’s that on your wrist?

Beau Garrett: That’s a tattoo. It says Lulu. My dog’s name is Kona. I call her Kona Lu, Lulu Bug. Lulu. Also, if I have a daughter, I want that to be her nickname. So it’s a multifunctional tattoo.

Wait, what’s the dog’s name?

I found out last night, while I was reading this book on female serial killers, that there was a member of Manson’s female posse they called Lulu. So I’m reading this, and I’m looking down at my tattoo, and I find out that Lulu was the girl who killed the guy in Los Feliz, which is near where I grew up. So now I’m feeling guilty about having it there.

What’s the murderer’s name?

Nickname. Lulu. Lulu Van Houten.

This is background reading? For the show?

Everything I’m reading — my entire library is now about homicide and sexual deviance. It’s all about the show. Criminal psychology. People come over and they think I’m nuts. But that’s what my character would study at Quantico, or in forensic psychology. So I read about killers. Gives me nightmares. When I take a break, I’m reading Why God Is Great.

Not.

What?

The book. God Is Not Great.

I mean Not. Not Great. Right.

So I liked the first Tron, which makes me the only person I know who even remembers the movie.

Did you like the suit?

The black thing, with the stripe. I don’t remember caring much.

You would like it now. Black. Very tight and rubbery. Clingy.

People tend to like women in rubber suits.

It took five hours to get in that suit. If you’re claustrophobic, forget about it. The fourth layer was a balloony type material that was incredibly strong. It was a onesie, you know, like with the feet on it. It took four sets of hands. Pulling, pulling, pulling. It’s got lights. It was a month of prep to get the suit right. Another month to light it. It was really pretty beautiful, pretty textured and surreal. Electric. The first time I got lit, I got really excited.

I’m sure of it.

And urinating? Doesn’t happen. Four layers of suit and the holes didn’t line up. Your body just shuts down and you can’t sweat. There’s no air. So you smell different. I’d take that off at the end of twenty hours of shooting, there’d be this waft of that different me. Deadly.

No way you lasted twenty hours.

Okay. Yes. There were funnels.

What’s that on your other wrist?

I just write on myself. Notes to remember. That just says: Breathe.

Are you nervous?

It’s not about you. That was about being looked at, I think. It’s days old.

Do you mind being looked at?

I was a model for eight years. That’s the deal: People look. But I didn’t like being looked at and never seen. I’m twenty-seven now. I’m not going to lie — when I feel beautiful, I like being looked at. When how I feel is how I look? Sure, look at me.

Is acting easier?

Acting is an uncomfortable business because you have to make yourself vulnerable. But actors get taken care of. There are people who get rooms for them. Car service to the airport. Very different than modeling, where you have to make yourself invulnerable. I lived in Paris for six months when I was sixteen. It was a fend-for-yourself environment. No one stands up for you, no one backs you up with the bullies. I’d be on these shoots in Europe with a photographer giving people Ecstasy, forcing the male model to wear women’s lingerie, then he’d turn to me and say, “Take your shirt off.” No one’s with me, no one’s looking out for me. I’d have to stand up to that, when everyone who cares about me is on the other side of the planet. Then my body changed. I became more of a woman, less of a waif. They stop calling. That’s how it ends.

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