During his
appearance on Wednesday night's Late Show with David Letterman, the actor Joaquin Phoenix didn't look or act like a slick, polished superstar. Slumping in his chair, Phoenix was distant, reticent and reluctant, seeming to take refuge within the huge dark sunglasses, thick hair and beard, and added weight that have become his look since he announced a few months ago that he had quit acting, that the film he had just completed -- Two Lovers, co-starring Gwyneth Paltrow -- would be his last. Speculation has raged since then about his increasingly shaggy, shabby appearance. A new celebrity-gossip staple is: Has Phoenix fallen apart?
Letterman and his producers were no doubt well aware of this transformation when they booked him. No doubt they knew in advance that the interview would almost surely be a trainwreck. They booked him anyway. Did they have to? He's a major star. His new (and most likely last) film just opened. But ... he's clearly hurting. We don't know why, and we don't know how, and why should we, as we don't know him personally and these things are private? He's hurting. He's in distress. It shows. Shouldn't we leave him in peace to seek the help he needs -- or to let his loved ones seek it for him?
But the entertainment industry doesn't work that way. Celebrity-driven society doesn't work that way. Undergoing what certainly looks like a psychological crisis, Phoenix became, on the Late Show, a figure of fun: the helpless object of mass mockery, of torture-as-theater, taunted by a seasoned professional and jeered by hordes. There was something so retro about this, something of the village idiot pinioned in the stocks -- especially ironic because Phoenix is famous for acting in Gladiator, a film about public spectacle and the cruelty of crowds, something I'd thought was centuries behind us.
Eyeing the actor as the interview begins, Letterman ventures: "You look different."
Phoenix shifts in his chair, confused.
"You've got a beard goin'," Letterman persists. "How is that for ya?"
Phoenix draws back a bit: "In what way?"
"Is it comfortable?" Letterman drawls as the audience begins to titter. "Is it itchy? Are you pleased with it?"
And right there, the fact that this is a torture session strikes. Those questions are condescending, infantilizing. You wouldn't ask an ordinary talk-show guest those questions.
"I'm okay with it," Phoenix mutters. "But now you're making me feel weird about it."
"I'm sorry," Letterman ripostes, but it's obvious that he doesn't mean sorry in the actual sense, as in apology. He loves this. Leaning far forward, invading Phoenix's space and peering intently at the actor, Letterman adds in a calculatedly offhand tone: "I'm making you feel weird about it?"
And you wonder: Why doesn't Letterman just give up the pretense, why doesn't he just point at poor Phoenix with one index finger, and with the other make a circular "crazy" gesture around his own ear?
"Is there something wrong?" Phoenix asks as the audience erupts into wild laughter. Watching this, the last thing I want to do is laugh. I want to cry. I want to rush onto that stage, beckon Phoenix off into the wings, away from all those prying eyes and roaring mouths, and get him somehow, somewhere, to safety.
Letterman huffs: "I can't be the first one to make you feel weird about it."
The audience roars.
I thought we were supposed to be kinder and gentler. I thought compassion was part of being progressive. I've been accused lately of lacking compassion. Letterman, his producers and his audience probably think quite highly of themselves. Yet really, this is the Colosseum redux.
Phoenix scratches his cheek in puzzlement. Mimicking the gesture, Letterman says, "You do a lot of this."
Phoenix sighs: "That's just a nervous tic, I think."
And I think, Letterman, you monster, the guy's just being honest with you. Leave him alone. But Letterman will not. He keeps going in for the kill, and you have to wonder why.
"Nervous tic," Letterman repeats, and the audience exults. Possibly -- just possibly -- the audience believes this is a put-on, that Phoenix is only playing crazy, that this is an act. And we know how skillfully he can act. But what if it isn't? What if it's real? The way he slumps, his inarticulacy, his mumbling, his defensive posture -- if that's an act, then once again you have to wonder why.
Letterman praises Phoenix's work in Two Lovers. Phoenix says "Thank you," then falls silent. The audience chuckles. Letterman makes a point of drawing out the silence, flexing his fingers and rolling his eyes and pursing his lips. The audience guffaws. Finally, Letterman turns to Phoenix and inquires:
"What can you tell us about your days with the Unabomber?"
Phoenix recoils.
You might say: Well, Letterman has to do something to keep the show flowing. Caught off guard, he has to wing it. It's a talk show, and when a guest sits there mutely a host can't let the show completely fall apart. You might say Letterman was in a tight spot that night.
Letterman brings up the topic of Phoenix's retirement: "You're not gonna act anymore."
"No." Long silence.
"Why is that?"
"I don't know," Phoenix says. More silence. The audience laughs. Why are they laughing? What could possibly be funny about this?
Struggling for words, Phoenix adds: "It's not really an easy thing to explain. It's somethng that's been part of my life for a long time, so it's weird to come out [unintelligible] a bunch of people and just talk about it."
Letterman asks Phoenix about his plans. Phoenix says he wants to concentrate on making music. Letterman asks whether it will be the same kind of music the actor performed in the Johnny Cash biopic, Walk the Line. Phoenix says no: "I do more of a hip-hop music."
Letterman repeats: "Hip-hop music."
The audience finds this hilarious. Phoenix shifts in his chair.
"Um -- that's a joke?" Phoenix turns to Letterman: "What do you have them on?" He means the audience. "What do you gas them up with? Nitrous?" Startled, insulted, confused, he mumbles something about "this maniacal laughter."
The way Phoenix is behaving here is not how a polished media professional normally reacts when being grilled by a celebrated comedian on national TV. But this IS how an ordinary human being who feels at risk, downhearted, depressed and distraught reacts when asked such questions by, say, his annoying cousin in a suburban living room. During the Letterman interview, Phoenix resembles with uncanny vividity my high-school friend Chuck. With his heft and beard, Phoenix is Chuck's double. Chuck was funny, shy, an Elton John fanatic, and depressed. Some days, Chuck could barely drag himself out of bed, much less to school. My best friend Deb and I tried mightily to cheer Chuck up. We sang to him. We cut pictures of the tennis champ Chris Evert out of magazines for him. He really liked Chris Evert. He smiled -- in that thankful but faint and fleeting Chuckish way. We lost touch after graduation. Deb and I suspect that Chuck is no longer in this world.
I decry the public takedown of a talented and troubled man. Phoenix's work has entertained me for years, and I owe him at least this much.
