photos via Rolling Stone crediting US magazine (X) by Mark Seliger
by Chris Mundy
US, January 1997
By the time Jared Leto calls, he’s already an hour and a half late. He apologizes, saying that he copied down the address incorrectly. He is one block away on a pay phone; he can see the meeting spot from where he stands. He says he’ll be there immediately. Half an hour later, Leto finally strolls through the door.
You assume he’s a flake.
It has been two years since Leto’s television series, My So-Called Life, died its premature death, and during that period he has bided his time, hoping to find the right projects to help melt the Jordan Catalano mystique. The problem is that, like his fictional alter ego, the more Leto hides out or keeps quiet, the more that aura grows, and there remains the possibility of real depth behind his stare. Or not. Which means Jordan Catalano’s great mystery has become Jared Leto’s.