The Man Show
The
Hollywood male used to be a dangerous rogue. Today, in a world of
well-behaved actors, all we have left is Russell Crowe.
A few months ago, breathy overseas gossip had it that Russell Crowe
was on the verge of marrying Danielle Spencer, a pixieish Enya wannabe
he’d been dating intermittently since 1991. The rumors seemed plausible:
Like stories about global warming, everything you read about Crowe
is both factual and nowhere near as scary as what’s true. The American
entertainment-news magazines (which tend to be neither) spun their
leads in typical “Sorry, ladies, looks like ol’ Russ is off the market”
fashion, but in truth, the blow would be more keenly felt by men.
For nearly a decade, Crowe has been Hollywood’s bellwether rogue and
preeminent swordsman-the guy who reminds us that stardom is not, in
fact, an elected office. With Johnny Depp content to fit the Navigator
with baby seats, and Brad Pitt soon to join him, Crowe is all but
alone in his dogged pursuit of the leading man’s loftiest goal: sleeping
with beautiful women, regardless of their availability, and beating
up people on a semi-regular basis. (Sure, there’s George Clooney,
but his bar-closing days are clearly behind him; he doesn’t even bother
getting in a tiff unless it gets him on Fox News.)
Since arriving on these shores in 1994 at the behest of Sharon Stone-“He’s
the sexiest guy working in movies,” she said back then, when she was
working in movies-Crowe has manifested a superhuman ability to charm
the opposite sex (despite an incipient Oliver Hardy gut and a gift
for unflattering haircuts). Moreover, he seems happy to use his powers
for good and evil, whether that means reading poetry to Courtney Love
or helping along the disintegration of Meg Ryan’s marriage. Nor has
Crowe’s roguishness been confined to the bedroom: When he isn’t inspiring
co-stars to rethink their vows, he’s rearranging someone’s dental
work, or a (allegedly) biting a chunk out of an Australian bouncer’s
neck. While the targets of his rage represent a democratic cross section-harried
television producers, sycophantic actors-his victims are invariably
reporters. For an unsuspecting stringer, a Russell Crowe junket can
turn into an exercise in terror, some twisted hybrid of the Spanish
Inquisition and a Donald Rumsfeld press conference.
Of course, Crowe is simply the latest in a grand Hollywood tradition.
The original rogue thespian, the one against whom all others must
be judged, was John Barrymore. If Barrymore found a certain 18-year-old
particularly comely, first he deflowered her, then he consulted her
mother. The tradition of the star as a kid in a sex candy store was
further advanced by a pre-knighted Richard Burton, and later, a pre-Tahiti
Marlon Brando; it was perfected by Warren Beatty circa SHAMPOO. For
these men, the conquests weren’t so much victims as initiates into
a stardusted club of forbidden lust-and their celebrity shone all
the brighter for it. Meg Ryan’s fling with Crowe gave her something
she couldn’t buy before she met him: an edge.
We are all made a little better by the presence of such scalawags.
In an age when movie stars, like cutlery salesmen, are judged solely
on their ability to generate revenue, the Crowes of the world show
us that something far more significant can be achieved through Best
Actor status: a greater truth, a higher plateau, the blonde three
booths over. Movie stars don’t just act; they act on the impulses
the rest of us only dream of indulging. The highlight of this year’s
Oscar-cast? When the camera cut from a triumphant Denzel Washington
to a seething Crowe. It was a more genuine emotional display than
any of Halle Berry’s histrionics. In this simple moment, we could
divine the secret of the Hollywood scoundrel: Beneath that philandering
veneer beats the heart of an excessively honest man - a living,
breathing, Victoria Bitter-drinking id. “I don’t think I’m misunderstood,”
Crowe told a cowering press corps this past December. “But I definitely
think I’m misconstrued. I think it is very easy to offend people with
the truth for some reason.”
Speaking of the truth, those rumors that Crowe had proposed to Danielle
Spencer turned out to be false, or at least premature. Apparently,
when they went shopping at Cartier in Rome this past Valentine’s Day,
he bought her a $28,000 diamond encrusted watch, not a ring. But Crowe
just turned 38, and according to the British press, he’s recently
taken to pining for children. It’s just a matter of time before he
hangs his spurs and trades in his roguishness for suburban pastures.
And when Crowe goes, there may be no one left to replace him. The
Hollywood scoundrel is an endangered animal. He does not function
well in the 24-hour news cycle, where his every impulse is scrutinized
and judged, where E! channel pundits treat each row as if it required
the ministrations of Kofi Annan. The press, which perhaps benefits
from his appetites the most, is shepherding him toward extinction.
If Crowe does tie the knot, who waits in the wings? Jason Patric?
(Too pretty.) Aaron Eckhart? (Too Mormon.) Jack Black? (Too Chris
Farley.)
We can only hope that someday soon, another unshaven mess will saunter
in to stave off the obsolescence of Satyrdom, and when that day comes,
we will all line up to bask in his vapors.
By
Oliver Jones
Thanks
to Barbara
