"I'm Still Here": Joaquin Phoenix implodes — we think

I'm Still Here — "that Joaquin Phoenix movie" — capitalizes on an anxiety that is very of-the-moment, uniting pop cultural phenomena as seemingly disparate as the too-stupid and/or good-to-be-true Jersey Shore characters, James Franco's baffling side careers as a professional student and soap opera stud, and pretty much everything having to do with Vincent Gallo. Basically, anything that forces us to ask: Are they fucking with us?

Directed by Phoenix' brother-in-law, Casey Affleck, the film purports to document Phoenix' high-profile "retirement" from acting, his alleged attempt to transition into a hip-hop career, and his subsequent, much-publicized meltdown. This period coincided with the promotion and release of Phoenix' last film, Two Lovers, which, like Here, was released by Magnolia Pictures. Whether the retirement was contrived or permanent, he has not appeared in or publicly acknowledged shooting another film since. He has also not released any musical recordings — in fact, he's been all but absent from the public eye since spring of last year — which is coincidentally the same time Here's portrait of his life ends.

At the outset of the film, Phoenix describes his acting career as a "self-imposed prison," claiming frustration with his lack of creative control as a performer ("[I'm] just a fucking puppet") and resentment over his obligation to maintain his celebrity persona ("I don't want to be the Joaquin character anymore"). And so, after participating in a charity theater event with a "dream team" including Affleck, Jack Nicholson, Sean Penn, and "fucking Danny DeVito," Phoenix gives a red-carpet reporter the "exclusive" news that this will be his last night as an actor.

It's such an exclusive that it comes as a surprise to Phoenix' publicist, who is helpless to intervene as her twice-Oscar-nominated client proceeds to obliterate any industry goodwill he might have had in a six-month flurry of drugs, shitty rapping, P. Diddy-stalking, and bizarre public appearances, peaking with Phoenix' now-legendary February 2009 beyond-awkward noninterview with David Letterman. Throughout, Affleck tails Phoenix (without much explanation) but largely refrains from intervening in the action, which is enabled by Phoenix' entourage of two: "general assistant" Antony, and Larry, billed as "caretaker."

It's hard to doubt the veracity of what's onscreen. Much of what Here depicts happened in real life and in plain sight, and all throughout this period, the gossip media breathlessly reported on Phoenix' every increasingly curious move. But just after he announced his retirement, Entertainment Weekly quoted an unnamed source who claimed that Phoenix and Affleck were perpetrating a "hoax" for the purpose of a faux-documentary. I'm Still Here was thus the target of skeptical speculation from shot one, a potential liability that Affleck and Phoenix drag into the frame, with Affleck angrily interviewing the EW reporter on camera and Phoenix accusing Antony of selling his secrets.

Perhaps it goes without saying that Here was more provocative when it couldn't be seen, when it existed for most of us purely in the realm of rumor.

Ostensibly the uncensored story of a life in free fall, Here doesn't offer anything that feels as queasily startling as that Letterman performance. Think of I'm Still Here's first hour as prologue to that epic event of self-destruction. By the time it regurgitates the late-night TV highlight/career lowlight, Affleck has built enough of a context — about the beleaguered artist whose true identity and creative impulses have no outlet in commercial culture — that its impact is inverted. When the studio audience laughs, it's clear they're laughing at Phoenix, which comes off as cruel; he seems less apathetic or out of it than paralyzed with sadness. And after the taping, he's all too aware of what's happened — "I've fucked my fucking life," he wails. "I'm just gonna be a joke forever." With this outburst, I'm Still Here's psychological strategy clicks into place, and its dramatic momentum increases considerably.

Was this all staged? Probably, but does that matter if it feels true? In fact, the end credits more or less confirm I'm Still Here to be, if not a traditional work of fiction, then at least primarily a performance produced for cameras. It seems that this is a secret the filmmakers and their distributor have been trying to protect through cryptic advertising and limited advance screening (I was required to sign an embargo/confidentiality agreement before entering the theater), hoping to keep the mystery alive. But now, knowing that I'm Still Here was more invented than accidental raises more questions than it answers.

In other words, the question of whether they're fucking with us is easily settled; it's much harder to determine why they're fucking with us. And are they even fucking with us — the average viewers with no direct experience of what it feels like to be a celebrity, who can make inferences and judgments only based on the images that are presented to us — or are they fucking with their fellow celebrities, who stand to feel the force of the less than flattering aspects of themselves in Phoenix' portrayal? Though clearly mocking the delusions of grandeur embodied in one of his rap verses — "I'm still real/I won't kneel/I'm the one God's chosen, bitch" — most of the film isn't that broadly funny, or apparently playful. At once deeply felt and devastatingly cynical, I'm Still Here's bone-dry satire couldn't exist without the celebrity media feedback loop. But its apparent attack on the Hollywood machine is so insidery, so vicious, that to us — the everyday consumer — it's just not clear why this stunt needed to exist at all.

 
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