US - December 1995

Travolta - Leslie Van Buskirk

John Travolta is having a daddy moment. Standing in a hallway off the dining room of his house high above the L.A. basin, he holds his son so that the two are eye to eye. The 3-year-old clasps his father's considerable face in his tiny hands as the pair whisper intently. A few moments pass before Jett throws his arms around Travolta's neck, kisses him once, twice, three times and scurries off.

Travolta returns bearing an unnecessary apology and a loopy grin. "My son, he's just…he's soooo…I'm so in love with him."

The actor sits back down at the table, just in time for dessert, a kiwi-and-strawberry-studded napoleon. This was preceded by other culinary delights – tangy crab cakes, salad with caramelized pecans, seafood lasagna with white sauce and asparagus – prepared by his new chef, a bespectacled young woman who beams with each effusive compliment from her employer. Between courses, another woman, older and dressed in a colorful shorts-and-top ensemble, casually inquires, "Done, Mr. Johnny?" before whisking the plates back to the kitchen. Travolta's assistant, Sean, is within shouting distance, as are two other women who keep a close eye on a careening Jett. In the background, phones trill, pots bang, cars start and start in the driveway, and people wander through, smiling.

The conductor of this symphony of organized chaos takes polite umbrage at the suggestion of an extravagant lifestyle. These days, anyway, it has become something of a necessity. Since Pulp Fiction reminded the world of how much fun Travolta can be onscreen and turned him into Hollywood's hottest leading man all over again, he hasn't stopped working.