Jack Nicholson is inarguably my favorite actor of all time. Don't even try it. You cannot persuade me that I think otherwise--trust me.
As I steeled myself for a potential face-to-face meeting the other day, I tried to imagine what I would say to him, were we to make eye contact, or were I to stumble upon some golden opening.
This is the conversation that ran through my head:
Me: "I'm a big fan."
Jack: "Prove it."
Me: "My five favorite movies of yours are: Five Easy Pieces, Carnal Knowledge, The Shining, Chinatown, and As Good As It Gets."
Jack: "What, not Batman? That's one of my faves--I considered it a piece of pop art."
Me: "No. It was a good performance, but the character is the definition of un-relatable; I prefer you when you are more human, because I see a lot of you in myself and it's interesting to see what I might do in certain situations I've never been in. If I could have written and directed one movie, Five Easy Pieces would be it. I relate to your character much more than I should. Bobby Dupea is fundamentally unhappy, selfish, and cruel--yet also brilliant, adventurous, honest, and above all, confused."
Jack: "You trying to make love to me or pay a compliment? Now I'M confused..."
Me: "Sorry. I guess I'd just like to sit down and talk to you a bit more, under better circumstances, with some drinks, maybe even some drugs. I think we'd get along really well. And your character in Carnal Knowledge got me rolling one night on an idea for a movie. I'd love to sit down and talk with you about it sometime, hear your thoughts, get some advice--maybe we could work together."
Jack: "Well, I'd ask you to become my assistant or protege or whatever, but your tits aren't big enough. Better luck next time, kid."
When I saw him the other night, at the
California Hall of Fame induction ceremony in
Sacramento, it thrilled me more than I would have guessed--a rare moment of fanboy excitement in my otherwise measured life. I wanted to get a picture with him, but I could not bring myself to invade his privacy like that; I went back and forth on the idea all night. Instead, I observed.
He looked old, as you might imagine a 71 year-old man would, and has definitely been packing on the pounds in his never-say-no-except-to-marriage old age, but there was something else going on that affected me immediately, yet took a while for me to identify.
He was at once casual and uncomfortable. He loped around the room like he was sneaking away from something, like he might leave at any minute. He never stayed in one place for too long. He rarely made eye contact. He did not want to be there, and yet he was; and yet he stayed.
He watched the other inductees curiously, studying them on the sly, speaking to them only when spoken to. Backstage, he stuck to Clint Eastwood like glue, like he was so grateful to have found a fellow 'man' who could understand him. It was the only time I saw him smile before the show started.
During the show, he alternatively looked bored stiff or listened with childlike interest to the brief retrospectives on the others, often turning around to watch the pictures projected on the big screen. As the evening progressed, he seemed to loosen up a bit. I think he realized he was surrounded by other people who have also done great things, and maybe they weren't so bad.
At the afterparty, I was never too far away, my camera burning a hole in my pocket, my eyes well-trained. I realized what was bothering me about him, what I think is bothering him.
I think Jack is lonely.
I scanned my brain for possible supporting evidence:
- Only found out that his 'sister' was actually his mother and his 'mother' was actually his grandmother after they both were dead. A reporter discovered this while doing a piece on him in 1974, and had to be the one to break the news to Jack.
- Has no idea who his father is. His mother, a New York showgirl, evidently got around quite a bit, and although there are two prominent suspects (her manager and a showman--not 'showboy,' interestingly), nobody was ever sure. Needless to say, he grew up without one.
- In 2004, Nicholson attended his 50 year high school reunion accompanied by his aunt Lorraine.
- Six kids, five mothers, one failed marriage (1962-68).
- Dated Angelica Huston for 17 years. Broke up with her when his
other girlfriend had a baby. Once again, a reporter broke the news.
- Marlon Brando = Dead
- Warren Beatty = Married with children
- Roman Polanski = Banished to France
- Robert Evans = Senile, broken, and useless
As I watched Jack fidget and dart glances around the room, I kept flashing back in my mind to two quotes I remembered from his
imdb entry (one of the most fascinating there is, by the way, if you're looking to waste a little time):
"It's not so nice when you are 71 and looking for some action. I feel uncomfortable doing it in the limelight - so from now on I'll do it when it's right. Happily, when it comes to girls hitting on me, I'm not undernourished."
"I think it is very unattractive for me to be seen fawning over little, tiny girls. I didn't feel that for a long time but now I do. If I could slip them out the back entrance wrapped in a blanket, that's a different story." (February 2004)
And so it seems everybody's favorite Lothario has developed a wee conscience, a sense of propriety; he has changed. Some would say matured. Perhaps part of him wonders if he should have settled down at some point--maybe with Angelica Huston, maybe with one of the countless others before and after. Perhaps in his old age, he realizes there may be value in having a partner around with whom he can share his life, have interesting conversations, and reminisce about the good times. Perhaps he's wondering if he did it all wrong.
But then he remembers all the wild times he's had; the alleged 2000+ women he's fucked; the young, female, complete strangers that
still walk up to him on-set at lunch and ask, in front of the entire crew, if they can blow him in his trailer; the steamy affairs with costars, extras, wannabe starlets, models, starstruck commoners...and his Chesire grin stretches its limits. Who would want to throw all that away for a wife whose stories you know all too well, and whose body long ago lost its fascination? Where's the fun in that? Where's the adventure?
I have to say that, although I (sadly?) do not exactly share his 'experience,' I can relate to Jack in a very human way. A very manly way. The disparate desires to settle down and spread your seed represent a torturous
Jeckyll & Hyde* conundrum that make being a man nearly an impossible task. Every waking second is a battle--the social versus the biological beast.
Every time a man with any hint of a libido sees a sexy woman, he wants to fuck her. Most of us have obstacles in our way--shyness, ugliness, fear, poverty, attachments; Jack has none. Well, maybe not none--surely he has some sort of STD by now, surely there are women who think he is simply too old, surely there are sexy women who wouldn't be too thrilled to be in the 2000+ community--but there are perfectly sane young women
that I know who find him disarmingly sexy. Still. And he works it. Still.
All men are jealous.
And yet, as Jack sat up on that stage with other famous people--Jane Fonda, Jack LaLanne, Quincy Jones, Dave Brubeck, and descendents/widows of deceased honorees such as Dr. Seuss--I sensed a yearning for their peacefulness, their stability, their love. He was the only person on stage who came alone. He was the only one who would leave alone. When he got home, nobody would be waiting for him. Sure, he would probably call up a $5000/hr 19-year-old Ukrainian hooker, snort a mountain of cocaine, pop a Viagra, and get his rocks off...but then what? She would leave. He would be alone. The buzz would wear off. He would snore himself awake in the middle of the night and nobody would be there but the darkness.
Nicholson has admitted publicly about his intractable fear of death.
"I would be so happy if I didn't smoke, for a lot of reasons. I can't believe that I can't break the habit. I don't want to be lying around, dying in Cedar's Sinai Hospital and thinking that I was as stupid enough, a man who is as petrified of dying as I am, to have done it to myself. I'm a real fraidy-cat about mortality."
Jack Nicholson long ago chose to live the Hyde life. Most others sided with the good Dr. Jeckyll. But let's be honest--most of them aren't any happier. Is the grass simply always greener?
Every man who is married debates divorce, debates having affairs with coworkers and secretaries, debates calling up prostitutes, debates fucking the babysitter, debates becoming a Mormon fundamentalist, debates cashing in his 401k, changing his name to Sugar Daddy, and moving to Poland.
Every man who chooses to stay single and leave his options open inevitably finds himself chasing after girls he does not even respect, girls he cannot even hold a conversation with, girls he hangs out with purely because he wants to fuck them. Why? The alternative is spending yet another perilously lonely night at home, wondering if he should have married some old girlfriend, bought a house, traveled the world, had kids, grown old together... Was she the one and I blew it? Will any other woman worth a damn ever find me attractive? Are all the good ones taken? At what age will sexy young women start refusing to even consider me an option? What then? Will I have to pay for sex for the rest of my life? Oh, God--I should have married Tina while I had the chance! No--wait--why? I'd rather be alone than with her when she's 50. Wait--would I? I don't like being alone. I only like being alone when I can't be alone. Wait...what? Tina! Tits! ARRGH!
Neither choice is perfect, neither choice is easy, both end in death and, typically, regret. But what does it all matter? As
Zorba the Greek said, "in the end, we're all the same--food for worms."
Sadly, not everybody can have it both ways in one lifetime--just
Warren Beatty, it seems--and Jack and I both know he will never change; it's too late. But, as I'm sure it has dawned on him, the cost of his lifelong gallivanting, the downside of his Jeckyll/Hyde decision, has come to bear: late-life loneliness. He must face down his biggest fear--death--alone.
Speaking of...I don't wanna jinx things, but I really hope he makes another movie before he dies. If
The Bucket List winds up as Jack Nicholson's parting cinematic gift to the world, I think I'll drive over to Hollywood and vomit on it.
* Incidentally,
The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde is my favorite literary work of all time. I think I underlined the entire book; brief, but packed with relevant, timeless, social philosophy.
