Miami Vice meets Star Wars! Don Johnson, 75, shocks fans by revealing Harrison Ford, 82, is a 'longtime friend'
Miami Vice icon Don Johnson shocked his fans on Instagram Thursday when he revealed who one of his best friends is.
The actor, 75, shared a photo of himself with Star Wars veteran Harrison Ford, 82, that proved the two silver foxes are close pals.
'Me and my long time friend .. Smiley,' the Doctor Odyssey star wrote facetiously next to the picture.
Johnson was smiling brightly while wearing a navy blue suede jacket and over gray T-shirt.
Ford declined to reveal his pearly whites while standing stoically in a navy blue suit and white button down shirt with his arm around Johnson.
'When legends met. Enjoy time please,' encouraged a fan.
Johnson and Ford may know each other because Johnson used to be married to Ford's Working Girl co-star Melanie Griffith.
'Me and my long time friend .. Smiley,' the Doctor Odyssey star wrote facetiously next to the picture. 'When legends met. Enjoy time please,' encouraged a fan
'Both of you still have it,' wrote another.
'Two absolute legends! May the force be with you, guys,' penned a follower.
'Sonny Crockett and Han Solo in the same room together?,' was the gleeful reaction of a fan, referring to Johnson's Miami Vice character and Ford's iconic Star Wars role.
'2 of the hottest men in the world ❤️,' stated another.
It's unclear how the two actually met, as the two have never worked in a film together.
Their friendship may go back to the time when the Shrinking star was working Don's ex-wife Melanie Griffith in 1988's Working Girl.
Griffith, 67, and Johnson had married and divorced in 1976, but rekindled their romance in 1988, after Griffith split from her former husband Steven Bauer.
The two re-married in June 1989 and some three months later, they welcomed their daughter Dakota, now 35.
Ford has made his mark in two very different TV shows; 1923, which completed its second season on Paramount+ and the Apple TV series Shrinking, which has already begun production on season three
The Griffith-Johnson marriage ended in 1996, but the two have remained friendly.
Both Johnson and Ford are enjoying a renaissance in their careers via their new television projects.
Johnson is helming Doctor Odyssey as Captain Robert Massey. The popular ABC show has not yet been renewed for a second season.
Ford has made his mark in two very different TV shows; 1923, which completed its second season on Paramount+ and the Apple TV series Shrinking, which has already begun production on season three.
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Daily Mail
14 hours ago
- Daily Mail
James Blunt shares heart-wrenching reason he made Star Wars actress Carrie Fisher his son's godmother
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The Guardian
a day ago
- The Guardian
I thought it was being gay that made my life so difficult. Then, at 50, I got an eye-opening diagnosis …
My earliest memory is of feeling different. I'm gay, and grew up in the 1980s, in a tough, working-class town in the north of England at the height of the Aids crisis. My gayness was obvious in the way I walked and talked. I was bullied at school, called a 'poof', 'pansy' and 'fairy'; other children did impressions of me with their wrists limp. I experienced physical violence, too. I was shoved, kicked, my head was slammed against the wall. I was punched in the face more than once. But it wasn't just my sexuality that set me apart. I was 'weird'. I had a rigid attachment to routine and was terribly shy, sometimes freezing in social situations. I needed to be on my own for long periods; not easy when you're in a family of five and share a bedroom with your brother. I was obsessive, channelling this at first into the Star Wars films, then the Narnia novels and, as I got older, Madonna. Lots of kids have short-lived interests but mine were intense: I'd collect facts and statistics about Madonna, memorise the chart positions of her singles, then reel them off to anyone who would listen. If anyone criticised her, I took it as a personal attack and would be distraught. I was easily upset in other ways. I was sensitive to touch and hated being cuddled, I burst into tears at the sound of fireworks. If I heard someone eating with their mouth open, I'd put my hands over my ears and run out of the room screaming. My anxiety was so acute, I'd bite my nails until my fingers bled. I found a few activities soothing. I had a security blanket, which I'd twiddle between my fingers. And I found comfort in repeating words or phrases, over and over again. Sometimes, I'd musicalise snatches of dialogue and skip around the house, singing them. On occasion, I'd lose control in the form of 'meltdowns' – usually before school. I'd collapse on the floor, my body spasming with rage and tears, yanking off my glasses and throwing them across the room. When I was nine, I was sent away on a camp with the Cub Scouts. When I realised I had to share a tent with some of the boys who bullied me, I started being violently sick. I shivered and sweated so badly that my sleeping bag became soaking wet. The Scout leaders removed me from the tent and took me to sleep in their hut. When my parents came to collect me the next day, I felt a relief like I'd never felt before. A lot of my 'weird' behaviour did fit with what, in the 80s, was considered to be 'gay'. Adults would comment that I was 'dramatic', 'oversensitive' or 'overemotional'. I worked hard at school and was neat and fastidious – all seen as effeminate traits – earning me the label 'girly swot'. In the working-class north of the 80s, nobody discussed mental health, let alone neurodivergence. 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There was a waiting list of several months, pages of forms to fill in, and interviews with figures from my childhood that culminated in a five-hour assessment. You are autistic, they said. When I heard the words, my heart was hammering, my breath short and fast. But mainly what I felt was relief. After years of being misunderstood – of misunderstanding myself – I finally had the right framework to build up a better picture of who I truly am. A lot of my behaviour started to make sense: twiddling my security blanket was what I now recognise as 'stimming' or self-stimulatory behaviour. As was my repetition of certain words and phrases, a habit known as 'echolalia'. Then I learned that rejection sensitive dysphoria and emotional dysregulation are common among autistic people. As is anxiety, although autism in itself doesn't produce anxiety, rather it seems to be caused by the challenges of living as a neurodivergent person in a neurotypical world. 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I've invested in noise-reducing earplugs, a weighted blanket that regulates my nervous system, and no longer stop myself singing randomly musicalised phrases. I only commit to social occasions I know make me feel good about myself. Likewise, I avoid sensory environments I know will make me uncomfortable and recover from sensory overwhelm by going for long walks in nature. Professionally, I ask for clear, unambiguous communication and I've also switched literary agents; my new representative handles the business side of my career to avoid any conflict. Recently, there have been claims that autism is being 'over-diagnosed'. Given that it took me until the age of 50 to receive a diagnosis, I'd challenge this. I'd also like to challenge some of the stereotypes that prevail – not to mention the prejudice. Now I've written this article, I accept that I'll always be seen as autistic. Some people might use this against me; if I have any disagreements, my point of view could be dismissed as an expression of my autism. But I also know that, at 50, there's probably less time ahead of me than there is behind. And with that knowledge, I embark on a new journey, to finally start living as myself, to embrace my neurodivergence and create a life that works best for me. I'm ready. Matt Cain's latest novel One Love is published by Headline (£9.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at Delivery charges may apply. Do you have an opinion on the issues raised in this article? If you would like to submit a response of up to 300 words by email to be considered for publication in our letters section, please click here.
Daily Mail
a day ago
- Daily Mail
Unless you're a golfer, Owen Wilson's new comedy Stick doesn't make the cut, writes CHRISTOPHER STEVENS
Stick (Apple TV+) The gods of television are cruel. No sooner do I confess my loathing for golf than they send a ten-part comedy series about the game. Of course I'm big-headed enough to believe they read this telly column on Mount Olympus. But it's more likely, I suppose, that Apple executives are eager for a sports serial to emulate the surprise success of their feelgood show Ted Lasso, about an American football manager who revives a struggling Premier League club. Problem is, you can enjoy Ted Lasso even if you care nothing about football. Stick, which stars Owen Wilson as a washed-up former professional golfer who discovers a troubled teenage protege, is relentlessly, monotonously fixated with the business of hitting a small round object with a long pole. If you're hypnotised by CGI shots tracking a white ball in flight over trees and lakes, you'll enjoy this a lot. If you possess an endless capacity for studying a man shuffling his feet and swinging a club in an arc, this is definitely the show for you. And if you thrill with paroxysms of excitement because a first drive soars onto the green, you may need to keep smelling salts to hand. The opening scene introduces Wilson as Pryce Cahill, a one-time Ryder Cup player now reduced to working as a salesman in a golfing supplies shop. He's selling a top-of-the-range club to a clueless customer. Then he's at his other job, coaching elderly ladies on their putting technique at the local club in Indiana, USA. (Don't ask me why the state is still called Indiana and not Native Americana — political correctness obviously hasn't arrived there yet.) That evening, Pryce is sinking beers in a bar, when a fellow customer starts mocking his fall from the golfing heights. The confrontation ends in a $1,000 bet on a putting contest. How much tension can be packed into the build-up to a golf putt across the carpet of a bar-room, with a whisky glass on its side as the target? Not very much, it turns out — and I cared even less when Pryce missed the shot on purpose, as part of a scam. His fellow con artist is played by Marc Maron, who was brilliant in the Netflix series Glow, yet another sports comedy — this one about female wrestlers. Maron is always watchable, but his character in Stick doesn't make much sense: he's Pryce's former caddy, a morose and monosyllabic man who somehow possesses the ability to switch on a torrent of wiseacre patter. The protege, Santi (Peter Dager), is equally unconvincing — one minute hard-working, wise and empathetic, the next a sulky teen who can't take his eyes off his phone. Stick does offer more than this. There's a romantic backstory, and Wilson is charismatic enough to make us want to see his booze-swilling, dope-smoking, self-sabotaging character find redemption. But before that happens, you're going to have to watch an awful lot of golf.
