The Producer

Author Robert Mailer Anderson is a fervent philanthropist who will soon add "filmmaker" to his résumé.

Author Robert Mailer Anderson has, as he says, a “history  of personal humiliation” that includes being mistaken for Jim Carrey, Chris Isaak and, most recently, “that creepy guy from Match Point”—Jonathan Rhys Meyers. However, in local social circles, the 38-year-old SF native and his  wife, Oracle heiress Nicola Miner, are unmistakable as  fervent philanthropists supporting education and the arts. “I think I’m the only former member of the SF Opera board who could slam dunk,” says Mailer, a six-foot-four sports enthusiast. Soon, the Pac Heights resident will add “filmmaker” to his résumé: His horror film Pig Hunt, featuring  a vengeful band of rednecks, high-powered weaponry and a killer pig, is in post-production. 

What are you vain about?
I’m entering a midlife crisis, so I’m not as confident as I  used to be. But there are three things I’m pretty good at:  I’m aggressively honest. I write a tight fucking sentence. And I used to be a pretty good athlete, until I blew out my  knee. My basketball game was always more “West Fourth Street” than, say, “Boston Garden.”

Is your literary style the same as your personal style?
Noir fiction and noir film are my guilty pleasures. I think that comes from my grandfather, who helped raise me. He was a prison guard and a WWII pilot. Because of him, my  personal style is mainly 1940s Hollywood—with a dash of a  fuck-you punk-rock mentality. 

We know you can rock a tux. But what’s your everyday  fashion like?
Nicola and I have four kids, so I’m lucky to find a pair of  Levis to wear without a banana stain. And because of my  knee, I wear these ugly, German-tourist-style New Balance  sneakers. I always wear a hat. My dad said, “You always  gotta have a lid.” I like fedoras and Panama hats. You greet  the day with a little more respect if you wear a hat.

Are you a metrosexual?
The very word implies that you spend too much time primping your damn self. I don’t trust that. I mean, who’s fucking got that kind of time?

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