With Oscars hype exploding, his every move splashed across the tabloids and now a kidnap threat to deal with, it's no wonder that Russell Crowe would rather be off playing with his band, writes Michael Dwyer. The newsstands of Sydney's Circular Quay are almost collapsing under the weight of stories about Russell's latest loves and travails. They're for nobodies. But just metres away, in a plush hotel overlooking the harbour, soft news and hard reality diverge in a lavish suite disappointingly bereft of blonde starlets. This afternoon, at least, Russell Crowe's jet-set celebrity life is a boys' club.
Indelicate language is afoot.
A packet of fags sails across the room. Cartons of grog stand in waiting. Crowe's rock band, Thirty Odd Foot Of Grunts, is in the house. Don't roll your eyes and lament the hubris of a grown man whose runaway acting career really ought to be enough to quell his juvenile yearning for the microphone and the mosh pit. These are standard responses to Crowe's Grunts.