THE HURRICANE OF Denzel Washington

Ebony, April, 2000 by Charles Whitaker

HE strides into the midtown Manhattan restaurant looking more like a suburban dad out for a weekend jog than a millionaire matinee idol and Oscar winner. He's not exactly incognito, though he's barely recognizable with an untamed mustache and goatee ringing the bottom half of his face, a black baseball cap tugged low on his brow and a gray sweatshirt hanging loosely over black nylon running pants.

No star affectations here, not even telltale signs like ostentatious jewelry or other expensive accoutrements. He is unadorned, except for a black sports watch and a thin gold and platinum wedding band. Even his white sneakers--and we're talking conservative, low-top, all-court sneaks, not the neon-hued, high-performance kicks that the NBA stars endorse--speak to the regular guyness that he exudes.

But this is no regular guy (though he will mildly protest that assertion). This is Denzel Washington, one of America's biggest movie stars, and the bounce in his step on this crisp, late-winter morning is provided not only by those somewhat corny sneakers, but also by the fact that he has just gotten word of his fourth Academy Award nomination, this one for his incendiary, yet moving, portrayal of wrongly convicted middleweight boxer Rubin Carter in the film The Hurricane.

The joy of the moment, however, is tempered by the fact that Washington's Best Actor nomination is the lone Oscar citation for The Hurricane, which had its enthusiastic, pre-opening buzz torpedoed by criticism that the filmmakers took too many creative liberties with the facts of Carter's life and nearly 20-year imprisonment, and distorted or neglected the efforts of many of those involved in the fight to free him.

As news of the film's poor showing in this year's Oscar derby sinks in, Washington's demeanor droops. "I'm sorry that other people associated with the movie weren't recognized," he says.

But he's clear about what he wants to happen on March 26, the night of the Oscar telecast. "I want to win," he says emphatically. "There's nothing wrong with saying that, is there? I know you're supposed to say you're happy to be nominated and all, but the truth is, I want to win."

That confession speaks volumes about Washington. It reveals his competitive spirit. (He was crestfallen when his 1992 portrayal of Malcolm X lost out in the Oscar voting to sentimental favorite Al Pacino.) And it also reveals the fact that Washington still, to a degree, seeks the approbation of the Hollywood establishment.

Not that he has anything to prove. He already is a card-carrying member of the Hollywood elite. His $12-million-a-picture asking price and mantle full of acting trophies--including the 1989 Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his work in Glory--are testaments to his stature in the industry. He has made 27 films in his 19-year career. His four Academy Award nominations--two for Best Actor and two for Best Supporting Actor--are the most received by any Black movie star. And he is one of the precious few Black actors with name-above-the-title marquee value. His hand and footprints are cast in cement outside of Mann's Chinese Theatre in Los Angeles. You can't get more elite than that in Hollywood.

Yet he's also suffered his share of slights: The Academy Award nominations that didn't come his way despite highly touted performances in films like Philadelphia and He Got Game; the fact that until very recently, he had to campaign for practically every role or develop his own projects because quality scripts just weren't sent his way. Despite his impressive body of work, he was pegged as a somewhat difficult-to-cast sex symbol.

His acting contemporaries seem to fall more easily, if unfairly, into categories. Wesley Snipes is the "New Jack" action guy; Samuel L. Jackson, the all-purpose brother/character actor; Laurence Fishburne, the brooding antihero. But the 45-year-old Washington, for better or worse, has defied typing.

He has tried his hand at everything. He has done action (Virtuosity, Ricochet), and brooding (Mo' Better Blues, Devil In A Blue Dress). He has done martyrs (Cry Freedom, Malcolm X) and military (Crimson Tide, A Soldier's Story).

The one thing he has done little of, much to the disappointment of his legions of female fans, is romance. (Mississippi Masala, which paired him in an interracial love story with an East Indian woman, was one of his few forays into this territory.) The widely reported tumor is that Washington refused to do love scenes. He adamantly denies it.

"I don't know why people keep saying that," he says. "It started with them saying I wouldn't take my shirt off in Mo' Better Blues. Then it was I wouldn't kiss Julia Roberts in The Pelican Brief. Then it was Denzel won't do love scenes. Hey, I'd do a love scene with Halle Berry in a minute. A good love story is one of the things I'm looking to do down the road. I just haven't found the right script."

Still, his desire to disappear, chameleon-like, into character and his indifference to the leading-man looks that have had Black women from age 16 to 60 pining for him for more than a decade seemed to confound casting directors. And while he campaigned for and won roles often written with White actors in mind (Courage Under Fire, The Pelican Brief), Hollywood's inability to peg him sometimes left him in creative limbo.