He survived a automobile accident, lost two friends then detected honour in the Oscar-winning Whiplash. Tim Lewis matches Miles Teller, whose success is shadowed by reports of dickishness
There are a few rooms you might know Miles Teller, a 29 -year-old actor who is pretty universally thought to be the future of Hollywood. For chin-stroking cineastes, he is the Whiplash boy. That movie, which tells the story of a virtuoso jazz drummer and his sadistic orchestra commander, was so out-of-the-blue bright that, after encountering it, it was hard not to become its personal publicist, imploring sidekicks, even strangers to see it. Manufactured in 19 epoches, for only$ 3 million, it acquired three Oscars, though not for Teller.
And then, for cruisers of the Mail Online s Sidebar of Shame, Teller is clickbait notorious as a dick. This suggestion came from an American Esquire cover story that went viral last-place August. The section mocked his swagger confidence and the route he talked about the actors he had in his spates: Ryan Gosling, Christian Bale and Joaquin Phoenix. It was a barbarian, career-jarring take-down and the modern world for you was sent around to many more people than have ever seen Whiplash .
The question is: is Miles Teller the new Ryan Gosling or even the next De Niro or Pacino? Or is he, excuse the bluntness, a dick? On a Saturday afternoon in August, Teller strides into a swanky inn suite on the 39 th floor thats just about eye level with the clouds. He is in town to promote his new movie, War Dogs , directed against The Hangover s Todd Phillips, but he has shazzy blond whisker from a cinema hes currently hitting with Josh Brolin and Jennifer Connelly, about firefighters tackling a wildfire that raged through Arizona in 2013.
The Teller story actually begins in the summer of 2007, when, as a 20 -year-old Grateful Dead fan, he was wandering dwelling to Florida from a Deadhead festival announced Gathering of the Vibes. His sidekick was behind the pedal, another was in the back seat, every inch of infinite was jammed with camping paraphernalium. Then, at 80 mph, the car skidded, rushed three thoroughfares of congestion and threw eight occasions. Teller was knocked unconscious and woke up 30 ft from private vehicles, his look contained within blood.
The guy driving, he was fine, my buddy he was sleeping in the back, Teller recollects. I even had a bag of tomatoes that were fine. Everything was penalty except for my face.
He laughs, though not with much fervor. At research hospitals he was told he was actually pretty lucky: 99.9% of people spewed from a auto at that quicken would be dead. They secured his broken wrist and made 20 staples in his shoulder; his appearance would require countless laser surgeries, the genu too used for removing tattoos, to make the cuts, he says, relieved in any particular road. The scars on his throat and chin still catch the eye and two boulders remain in his look, embedded late in scar tissue.
When Teller first went to acting institution, he used to prank that if his hound croaked, that would be the most emotionally wrenching know hed had to endure in their own lives. He comes from a stable, well-to-do pedigree: his father was an designer on a nuclear-power plant; his mother sold real estate. He grew up mainly in a small town in Florida with a modest claim to popularity as the manatee capital of the world. He was effortlessly strong academically, and exceeded at boasts, specially baseball. He started behaving because his drama schoolteacher was pretty red-hot, and landed a plaza at New York Universitys prestigious Tisch School. Then the crash.