![]() ![]() He was hired for McDonald’s Mac Tonight campaign, a job that required him to wear a large crescent moon for a head and jive around like an overzealous Burt Bacharach in front of a baby grand on top of a rotating Big Mac. Jones’ road to becoming Hollywood’s go-to guy for roles involving complex makeup and prosthetics work began in the late ‘80s when he received “big break number one,” as he calls it. “I’m not usually the guy who has people hiding in his bushes and saying, ‘Will you love me forever and ever?’” Although you may recognize some of the characters Jones has brought to life – Abe Sapien, the Faun or the Silver Surfer (from the first and second “Hellboy” films, “Pan’s Labyrinth” and “Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer”, respectively) – you probably wouldn’t recognize Jones himself. That’s because Jones’ pencil-thin visage is usually obscured by pounds of makeup, rubber latex and computer-generated imagery. Jamison is one of the rare roles where audiences will actually see the 48-year-old actor’s face. There are people out there who are in prison right now who have dipped into the colors that some of us don’t ever dip into, but we have them, and we have the potential to do that.” We have the full paint palette within us and it just depends on what we dip our brush into that day. “So when I play a darker character, I have to tap into something that isn’t my natural way, and what I found was that I think human beings have the potential for all of these emotions. “I’m a very happy-go-lucky lover of all mankind as a person in real life,” Jones says as the crew resets for a second round of murdering. The scene in question is a botched assassination, and Aarons (played by yours truly) has just become the unlucky recipient of Jamison’s wrath. We’re on the set of “Greyscale,” an independent film being shot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Jones is playing Jamison, a remorseless mob hitman. Along with the rest of the crew, he’s trying not to laugh himself. I can’t believe I’m killing all these nice people!” he says by way of apology, nodding to the couple on the couch who have just miraculously resurrected. “I’m sorry, it’s just that this is all so mean. I turn over to see Jones, bent double, attempting to stifle another outburst. The high-pitched giggles that follow a moment later only ruin it slightly. POP POP goes the gun and I’m sailing through the air, my body slamming into the foot of an oversized armchair. With a casual shrug, as if to say, “C’est la vie,” he pulls the trigger. ![]() He grins, but it isn’t an I’m-so-happy-to-see-you grin: he’s holding a gun to my head. ![]() At 6’4” and a hair shy of 140 lbs., Doug Jones resembles nothing more than one of Tolkien’s tree-like Ents made flesh and blood. I glance down at the cool, heavy object resting in my palm – a 9mm Smith & Wesson – before I hear the voice behind me, annoyed, frustrated, and cold-blooded: “You picked the wrong house again, Aarons.” I turn slightly and see one of the most eccentric-looking men I’ve ever laid eyes on. They’re on the couch, unmoving, and the woman’s head is cocked at an odd angle. The TV is chattering away in the background, casting a harsh, bluish glow over a middle-aged couple that I’ve never seen before. It’s midnight and I’m in the living room of a small suburban house. ![]()
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