Gilbey on Film: Is Joaquin Phoenix having a laugh?

Whether or not his new film is a spoof, the actor is still a welcome antidote to Hollywood.

No one in this super-sophisticated age wants to be the worrywart who goes diving under the bed when Orson Welles's War of the Worlds broadcast comes on the radio. We don't want to be caught out like the celebrities and politicians hoodwinked by Chris Morris's Brass Eye stunts, or the gullible fall guys set up by Sacha Baron Cohen in Borat and Brüno. We like to think we're ahead of every game. We know Elvis is alive. He's gone punting on the Cam with Michael Jackson. There's no pulling the wool over our eyes.

This collective determination to keep the egg as far from our faces as possible stems from the same recognisable social horror, the same morbid fear of the faux pas, that you'd find in something by Mike Leigh or Alan Bennett. And it is present in the response to the upcoming documentary I'm Still Here: the Lost Year of Joaquin Phoenix, which details the public and private meltdown of this brooding actor, who announced last year that he was cutting short his acting career to become a rapper. (To clarify: Phoenix is 35 years old. More to the point, he can't rap.)

A now-infamous appearance on Late Night With David Letterman, in which a taciturn Phoenix sat barricaded behind shades and crazy beard, felt like a bristly protest against the chat-show format, with its insatiable appetite for compliance, charisma and painstakingly rehearsed "off-the-cuff" anecdotes. That the whole affair might have been a prank (Phoenix was enjoying himself too much to suppress the odd indulgent smile or smirk) did not lessen the pleasure, or the spectacle. What was curious was the rush among the media, and online readers, to be the first to spot the joins, to cry foul.

Then the news broke that another actor, Casey Affleck, was following Phoenix everywhere with a camera, documenting this new career. Which brings us up to date. The LA Times reported on a recent screening of I'm Still Here for potential distributors: "It's far from the Joaquin Phoenix you're used to seeing onscreen: snorting cocaine, ordering call girls, having oral sex with a publicist, treating his assistants abusively and rapping badly. And not, apparently, playing a role -- or was he?"

Affleck has denied that the film is a mockumentary. Either way, I hope it isn't overshadowed by all this squabbling about definitions. It's largely irrelevant whether it is a hoax or not. Isn't it illuminating enough that Phoenix should choose to derail his prestigious career, even temporarily, with such tomfoolery? A genuine breakdown could hardly be any more revealing (and, we can but hope, would not have become a YouTube sensation).

Subject and director make an intriguing partnership. Affleck is married to Phoenix's sister. The actors appeared together as a pair of aimless delinquents in Gus van Sant's 1995 black comedy To Die For. Both men began their careers in the shadow of famous elder brothers -- River Phoenix (who died in 1993) and Ben Affleck -- whose work they have now arguably eclipsed. Aspersions have been cast on Casey Affleck's role as the director of I'm Still Here, but he has technical know-how, having helped to edit van Sant's Finding Forrester. "It's one of the best jobs on a movie," he said in 2003. "You get to assemble the thing. That's film -- juxtaposing images. When do you cut? What does it say if you cut there, or here?"

In his most complex on-screen work -- in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Gone Baby Gone and The Killer Inside Me (out in the UK next month) -- Affleck is a picture of wiry control. Phoenix, on the other hand, is a splurger, an actor so open, his work can be uncomfortable viewing.

James Gray, who directed him in three films (The Yards, We Own the Night and Two Lovers) wrote: "Looking back on our first collaboration, I'm not sure we actually collaborated all that much. I seem to remember a whole lot of torment and angst and yelling and screaming. But I also remember consistently being amazed by the emotional depth of the then 24- year-old, and I loved his feral unpredictability. He seemed ready to explode at any minute."

Even as a child performer (when he went by the name of Leaf Phoenix), he always seemed uniquely troubled. In the sickly 1989 comedy Parenthood, Phoenix's turn as a hostile, scrunch-faced kid racked with self-loathing supplied a sour antidote to all the hugs and life lessons. He still serves the same function in US cinema. He's still an antidote.

Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He blogs on film for Cultural Capital every Tuesday

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Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards.

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On the trail of Keith Jarrett's melodies

Lose focus for a second and you can quickly drop the thread of Jarrett's complex improvisational techniques.

“So, this is a piano,” said Keith Jarrett, sitting down at the one that had been placed centre stage for him in the Royal Festival Hall on 20 November. Blowing on his hands to warm them, he acted as if he had never encountered such an instrument before, raising a chuckle from the hundreds of fans who had turned out to see the man in the flesh. For 40 years, Jarrett has been giving concerts like this – alone with the piano, playing his improvised music to a room full of rapt devotees. Notoriously grumpy – and now as well known for his tirades against cameras and coughing audience members as for his early days playing with Miles Davis – he has an almost eerie focus onstage, relieving the tension only very occasionally with his barbed observations about the excellence of the instrument, or the shuffling in the auditorium.

Jarrett gave us a series of short pieces, each rendering separate and distinctive musical ideas. He began with an intricately woven flash of notes in both hands, criss-crossing the melodies that were by turns dark and haunting, or light and dancing. At particularly complex moments, when his arms were crossed over and the notes were flowing from his fingers faster than anyone could imagine them into existence, he leaned his ear down towards the keys, as if physical closeness could help his ideas more swiftly become sound.

A couple of folk-inflected ballads followed; heart-achingly sweet melodies picked out above rumbling, sour arpeggios. Like Glenn Gould, the Canadian pianist best known for his recordings of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Jarrett can’t help adding vocalisations as he plays, which are all the more evident in his quieter compositions. He rose and fell from his stool; we heard his guiding hum along with the melody, as well as the odd strangled shout, yelp and grunt. He might insist on absolute silence from the audience but his own noises seem completely uninhibited as the music spins around him.

Although notorious for his curmudgeonly attitude to his fans, Jarrett was mostly restrained in this outing, allowing himself just one short, sweary outburst about killing a “f***ing camera”. At the age of 70 and with the power to sell out his concerts in just a few hours, you do wonder how much of the persona is genuine and how much of it is just giving the audience what it expects. A case in point came near the end, when he yielded to clamouring and gave a surprisingly simple and straightforward rendition of “Danny Boy”, an encore that long-time fans know well.

Given that this recital was under the auspices of the London Jazz Festival, there was surprisingly little in Jarrett’s programme that could easily be identified as jazz. One piece, full of brisk rhythms and chunky chords, gradually revealed itself to be based on a modified 12-bar blues structure and another had haunting overtones surely pulled from the classic American songs of the first half of the 20th century. Indeed, this musical ghosting becomes a major preoccupation when you see Jarrett live. It is too easy to distract yourself in trying to follow the auditory trail he has laid for you – was that a bit of Debussy, or Bach, or Glass just then? – and lose the thread of what he plays next. The improvisational technique might have more in common with jazz but now, 40 years on from his bestselling live recording The Köln Concert, it’s difficult to characterise Jarrett’s output as anything other than contemporary classical music.

If it needs a classification, that is. At one point, I became convinced that a particular piece was a Jarrett riff on Beethoven’s Bagatelle No 25 in A Minor – or Für Elise, as it is more commonly known. I was sure it was all there: the extended opening trill, the rising arpeggios in the left hand, the melody cascading from treble to bass and back again. Except, by the time I surfaced from my musing, there was no trace of Beethoven to be heard. A clashing, almost violent melody was dangling over a long drone in the bass. If you try too hard to pin down Jarrett’s music, it moves on without you.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State