IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE WITH GEORGE & BRAD

They've spent three decades living intertwined lives at the inconceivably glamorous height of Hollywood. Now, having crossed the threshold of 60, they're more comfortable than ever throwing bombs, dispensing hard-won wisdom, and, yes, arguing about who had the better mullet in the '80s.

- ZACH BARON

IT IS THE laugh you hear first. Heh heh heh heh heh. Unhurried. Like he's got all the time in the world to do it. Some of the buildings here at Château Miraval, where Brad Pitt is just now tumbling out from wherever he spent the night, cup of coffee in hand, are nearly 200 years old, and the laugh rings off the stonework: heh heh heh heh heh. It rings through the terraces of olive trees. It ruffles the stone pots of lavender and rosemary. It sends the literal butterflies alighting on literal pink blossoms into the air, up toward the Provençal sky, which is the same soft blue as it was when Matisse painted it. It echoes off the lake and the vineyards and the ancient chapel and the black Mercedes convertible, top down, that is now arriving, with George Clooney at the wheel. Black sunglasses. Black polo. Loafers. When he sees Pitt, he yells: Brother! And then you hear the laugh again: heh heh heh heh heh.

Pitt and Clooney-they are used to living like this. Surrounded by beauty. In majestic isolation. They have been friends for nearly a quarter century, in part because of what they share: an understanding of where the road that every young actor dreams of walking-that road that represents some intoxicating combination of money and attention and success-ends up. It ends up here. In a place a regular human could barely describe (trust me, I'm trying), let alone relate to. What else can you do but laugh?