George Clooney, that smug Hollywood fraud, just announced he’s hauling his kids to a farm in France for a “better life” away from Los Angeles’s glare.
In an Esquire interview, the 64-year-old (who looks 80) whined that his eight-year-old twins, Ella and Alexander, will escape paparazzi and Hollywood’s toxic fame culture. He spun a sappy tale of kids frolicking on a farm, learning to fix coffee machines like good little peasants. Sounds sweet, until you realize this is the same guy who bolted from his fancy Tuscany villa the second African migrants showed up nearby.
Apparently, Clooney’s all about “humanity” until real humans get too close. Now he’s ditching America entirely, spitting on the country that built his fake stardom.
If Clooney wanted his kids out of LA’s spotlight, why not pick a quiet American town? Places like Boise or Asheville—decent schools, no tabloid vultures—would do just fine. Hell, he grew up on a Kentucky farm and hated it, so why not give his brats that “authentic” life he claims to love?
Nope, France is his escape hatch because deep down, he despises the USA. The country that handed him fame, fortune, and Nespresso millions isn’t good enough for his precious family. He’s too elite for America’s mess, too “worldly” for its grit.
France lets him play the tortured artist, far from the nation that made him.
Let’s talk about that “family.” Clooney’s marriage to Amal—or whatever her name is—reeks, in my opinion, of a lavender sham, a staged imitation of a real family. They met in 2013, married in 2014 like a PR checklist, and popped out surrogate twins in 2017. Instant family man! Amal, the brilliant lawyer, is the perfect prop, smiling at galas while Clooney hides his bachelor skeletons. It’s all fake—a staged photo-op to sell the “devoted dad” myth.
Those kids? I suspect they’re Just accessories for his image, not a real family built on grit and love. He’s not fooling anyone who sees through the Hollywood script.
And handsome? Seriously? Get real. The press and brain-dead fangirls hype Clooney as some timeless stud, but he’s a scrawny, wrinkled wreck. At 64, his sunken cheeks and sagging skin scream hospice, not heartthrob. He shuffles like a stiff wind could snap him in half, all bones and no life. Something’s eating him—booze from those Nespresso benders? Years of dodging real work? Whatever it is, he’s a husk of the “charm” he never really had.
Women swooning over old magazine covers need glasses; the guy’s a walking wraith. His career’s just as hollow. Clooney’s no actor—he’s a publicist’s wet dream, a mediocre ER doc turned “star” by hype, not talent. Ocean’s Eleven? Carried by the cast, not his smirking mug. His directing, like Good Night, and Good Luck? Pretentious drivel critics praised but audiences ignored. His Broadway flop this year—same story.
Good Night, and Good Luck on stage got a Tony nod, sure, but seats emptied once his fan club left. It’s all vanity, no substance. He mumbles lines and calls it art, coasting on a myth of depth he never earned.
Clooney’s real sin is hating the country that made him. Like I said, he fled Tuscany when African migrants got too close—some humanitarian! He pens (via a ghostwriter) whiny op-eds, like that New York Times piece begging Biden to quit, acting like America’s unelected savior. He trashes U.S. politics, funds every anti-American cause, and cries about “toxic culture” while cashing Hollywood checks.
He’s not an artiste or maestro—he’s a nobody posing as one, producing nothing but hot air. Fleeing to France, kids in tow, he’s running from accountability, not fame. America built this fraud, and he repays it by sneering from a French vineyard, blaming the nation he helped poison with his sanctimonious lectures. Good riddance to the emaciated has-been. Let France deal with his fake family and even faker legacy.
