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We Need to Talk About Ezra

Ezra Miller is very good at playing teens with socialization problems.


A tall, pale, floppy-haired youth loiters below the High Line on West 20th Street, rolling a cigarette, laconically considering the hopes and dreams of others. As he’s proven twice in the past year, in Another Happy Day and We Need to Talk About Kevin, Ezra Miller is a very convincing tortured adolescent. He has the coloring and bone structure of a vampire. At 19, he’s got both acne and gray hairs. When and if he can grow a mustache, he wants to play Edgar Allan Poe.

And yet, as I approach, he breaks character and smiles broadly, gives me a hug, and leads me to the “hope tree” he’s been perusing. It’s really a pole dressed up as a public-art project, with a mess of bright-orange and yellow tags tied to it, each scrawled with the yearnings of passersby. Miller reads aloud the one that delights him most: “I want a gorgeous, humorous, sexy, warmhearted man who is tall, wants children, is creative and affectionate. Also important is that he needs to have a U.S. American passport and wants to marry me within the next week.” Miller can’t remember the exact tag he wrote the last time he visited a hope tree, but “it was something about your body being a part of history. I wanted us all to act accordingly with that general premise,” he says. What does he mean by “body”? He explains: “Initially the physical body, but also all the other ones, like the emotional body.”

I’m still not sure what he means, but Miller has a habit of spewing half-baked musings that sound possibly profound. He picked the High Line as our meeting place not only because he wanted to smoke but also because, he says, “I’m interested in why I’m interested in the High Line, and furthermore why it’s compelling to people. It’s, I don’t know, a clarified vision for our drastic times—the apocalyptic nature of these weeds overgrowing train tracks.” Never mind that those weeds were planted by a landscaper. We wander around until we find the little amphitheater that steps down to frame a view of Tenth Avenue (“Here it is!” he says. “Here’s life as a play!”) and drink chai tea from a vintage, burnt-orange plastic thermos he’s brought along.

In films, Miller often has been cast as the quick-witted fuckup son. He played Andy Garcia and Julianna Margulies’s kid with a fat fetish in City Island, and Ellen Barkin’s arrogant nihilistic druggie kid in Another Happy Day. He got that role after showing up late to meet with director Sam Levinson and then demanding that they sit outside so he could smoke. (“I thought, ‘What a fucking prick! He’s perfect for this film!’ ” said Levinson at the time.) In his latest, ­Kevin, with Tilda Swinton, Miller takes his troubled-teen type a few steps ­further, committing a ­Columbine-like mass murder.

In his off time, he’s a neo-hippie. Activities include visiting Occupy Wall Street, Burning Man, and drumming, often shirtless, in a rootsy rock band, Sons of an Illustrious Father. The name comes from Plato’s Republic and, Miller says, refers to “the inherent torment of being privileged or coming from an illustrious father in a time of gross economic disparity.”

His father is Robert S. Miller, who is group publisher of Workman Publishing. Miller grew up in New Jersey with two older sisters; his mother, Marta, is a ­dancer. They keep a place in Chelsea, where Miller lives, “as much as I live any place.”

At 8, Miller performed in White Raven, a Philip Glass collaboration with Robert Wilson about Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama, at Lincoln Center. As part of it, he was hoisted “300 feet in the air!” ­(actually more like 40 feet, to the ceiling of the New York State Theater). There, he says, “I conducted the orchestra. With one grand, sweeping gesture, I brought up the sun. It was the most profound ego boost that an 8-year-old could possibly receive.” He then joined the Metropolitan Opera Children’s Chorus before being washed up when puberty kicked in. So he turned to acting.

His first film role, at 14, was the lead in Afterschool as a boarding-school outcast who numbly videos twin sisters dying of a drug overdose and masturbates to ­Internet porn of girls getting strangled. Director Antonio Campos says, “I could just tell he was special. He was a lot smarter” than other teen actors (they bonded over their love of A Clockwork ­Orange), and “more sensitive. He wasn’t afraid to make a fool of himself.”

He also wasn’t a virgin; Campos had difficulty getting Miller to act awkwardly in the sex scene. He already smoked, too. “I would smoke anything back then, man!” says Miller. “Dried bananas, you know, orange peels. Anything that burns, essentially. Tea used to be not for drinking.”

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