John David Washington

Pretending to be tourists with the BlacKkKlansman star.

- Allison P. Davis

JOHN DAVID WASHINGTON is spinning a story about his father. He has a lot of them, but this one, from when he was 4 or 5, is really lodged in there. “He did Glory, and I remember being on set for the big scene when he dies,” he says, telling it the way you only do with formative childhood memories—hazily, with dicey detail. He recalls sitting in video village with his mom when his dad came “out of the darkness and smoke, on a hill, in a blue suit. He looks at me and says: ‘Son, you want to come down here, check out the set?’” For whatever reason, presumably to protect him from watching his dad die take after take, his mom said, “No.” But it didn’t matter; something about that experience made Washington want to be an actor.

It’s probably clear by now, as Washington has spent his life reluctantly admitting, the father in his story is Denzel Washington. I feel bad. Because once you learn who his dad is, it’s impossible not to spend several minutes trying to find the Denzel in his face. In addition to examining precisely how tight his white polo shirt is and how well groomed his luxuriously thick beard is, I try to see if he has his dad’s megawatt smile, or if his milk-chocolate-brown eyes are like his dad’s. Maybe it’s in the way he carries his five-foot-nine frame? Eventually I tell him, “You look nothing like your dad.” He seems grateful to hear that.