That raspy drawl, the salt-and-pepper hair, a doughnut-stuffed belly hanging over his belt. Others in Primary Colors tried to steer clear of real-life inspiration; John Travolta became a Bill Clinton clone. It took weeks to master the familiar vocal cadence and body language, but the feel-your-pain sincerity came easier. "The scary thing about this part is, take away the Southern accent and gray hair, and I don't respond that differently to people," he says, dunking a taquito into a lump of guacamole as he unwinds in his trailer after work. "I'm good at schmoozing and being very caring and tolerant, which is just what Clinton does. It's that great p.r. thing."
Watching Travolta warmly embrace fans or chat up elderly extras on the set, it's clear he works "that great p.r. thing" as well as Clinton does. "John has a need for people, and you can feel it," says director Mike Nichols. But that's not all the actor and the President have in common. Both have answered prying questions about their private lives and sexual habits. And both know how to assuage their critics with roguish charm, cracking a humble aw-shucks smile or touching a stranger's arm to spark a personal connection.
There's also the hunger for having it all, a voracious desire to devour life--and food. Aside from the Mexican chow consumed during this late-afternoon interview, a solicitous valet furnishes Travolta with a box of chocolate ladyfingers, mere snacks "to tide him over" until dinner. Lunch can be an orgy of steamed lobster or an artery-choking beef Wellington. His sister Annie marvels at this "Vanderbilt" life-style, where 24-hour chefs cater to any food fantasy. Even during a marketing powwow for Primary Colors, Nichols recalls, "everyone brought along sandwiches except John, who was served four or five different courses. It was not unlike taking a meeting with Henry VIII."
Travolta keeps his plate full professionally too. He turned down As Good As It Gets, Jackie Brown and Good Will Hunting but has seemingly appeared in every other film produced in the past three years. "I get the top scripts now, and that's a beautiful thing," he beams. Since 1994's Pulp Fiction gave him a "second chance" at stardom, he's shot 10 movies nearly back to back, outpacing Hollywood workhorses Gene Hackman and Kevin Bacon. "I mean, he's gotta take some time off," declares co-star Kathy Bates. "Every time I turn around, he's in another picture. When I mentioned this to him at a party recently, he gave me this huge grin and said, 'Yeah, but isn't that the way it's supposed to be?'"
Maybe, though not the way it always has been. After Saturday Night Fever and Grease made him an icon by age 24, Travolta often took a year or two off at a time, content to fly jets while letting choice offers fly by. His only hits for an entire decade were two entries in the babbling-baby Look Who's Talking series. When the drought finally ended, he vowed to work as often as possible with A-list names. "If Dustin Hoffman wants me, yeah, I'm going," he says, his voice rising. "Mike Nichols? John Woo? Emma Thompson? Nicolas Cage? Yes, yes, yes, yes! I'm not going to say no like I did years ago and miss every opportunity I had. I'm in my 40s--it's time to define my career."