You can barely trust the hand in front of your face these days – and you probably shouldn't. Clearly, the truth has Clegged it. Reality shows? Scripted. Talent contests? Fixed. Documentaries? Mockumentaries.
2010 alone saw the release of three dubious docs – Catfish, Exit Through the Gift Shop, and I'm Still Here – the last, purporting to lift the lid on Joaquin Phoenix's celebrity meltdown, a story preoccupying gossip columns ever since he put down his razor and announced his intention to pursue a rapping career instead. The media built bonfires. The Internet made Molotovs. And David Letterman got some "batting practice" in.
The film's certainly an eye-opener. Surrounded by salaried "friends", a sobbing, puking Joaquin festers away in his house on the hill, ordering coke 'n' hookers to go, while pestering a patience-tested Sean Combs to produce his atrocious hip-hop. Occasionally, he'll venture out to rap for hordes of cell phone-waving ghouls, while media furies repeatedly hurl buckets of acid at him. It's hideous and hilarious.
However, when Casey Affleck revealed that he and his brother-in-law had simply been staging a two-year-long art project about celebrity, the reaction was somewhat surprising. Far from applauding their audacity, and Phoenix for the performance of a lifetime, many journalists seemed almost personally offended by the deception – as if Joaquin and Casey, the El Dude Brothers, had dropped by their houses and screwed their wives on the front lawn. Phoenix and Affleck were holding a mirror up to the spiteful snakes, and the view wasn't pretty.
Critics who lauded Sofia Coppola's movies about jaded, burned-out actors, practically crucified Affleck for his 'real-life' study of the same. I'm Still Here is a brilliant, unrepeatable one-off, one of the most savage deconstructions of the fame machine ever made, which couldn't actually have been made prior to the way the media operates today. Whether it was a hoax or not was the least interesting thing about it. Yet, news agendas being crude as oil, the only thing the hacks had wanted to know was: 'Is Joaquin joa-kin?'
Today's actors love to erect quote marks around themselves, but the deliberately self-immolating Phoenix pushes way beyond that; his apparent commitment to hip-hop mirroring a real-life commitment to his method masterclass, reaching a public apogee on Letterman, during which he virtually disappears into his suit like some bizarre Victorian parlour trick. Both host and guest are walking a tightrope of improvisation – but only one of them has a safety net.
In a closing 'Rosebud' moment, our Citizen Caned wades through the river he swam in as a boy, baptising himself in the consoling, amniotic waters of adolescence. It's an achingly beautiful sequence, marking Affleck out as a director with great potential. As for Phoenix, he's now made his peace with the machine. 'Still Here', guys! No harm done. Business as usual. Meanwhile, we can only pray Mel Gibson will turn around any day soon and shout "Punk'd ya!"
2010 alone saw the release of three dubious docs – Catfish, Exit Through the Gift Shop, and I'm Still Here – the last, purporting to lift the lid on Joaquin Phoenix's celebrity meltdown, a story preoccupying gossip columns ever since he put down his razor and announced his intention to pursue a rapping career instead. The media built bonfires. The Internet made Molotovs. And David Letterman got some "batting practice" in.
The film's certainly an eye-opener. Surrounded by salaried "friends", a sobbing, puking Joaquin festers away in his house on the hill, ordering coke 'n' hookers to go, while pestering a patience-tested Sean Combs to produce his atrocious hip-hop. Occasionally, he'll venture out to rap for hordes of cell phone-waving ghouls, while media furies repeatedly hurl buckets of acid at him. It's hideous and hilarious.
However, when Casey Affleck revealed that he and his brother-in-law had simply been staging a two-year-long art project about celebrity, the reaction was somewhat surprising. Far from applauding their audacity, and Phoenix for the performance of a lifetime, many journalists seemed almost personally offended by the deception – as if Joaquin and Casey, the El Dude Brothers, had dropped by their houses and screwed their wives on the front lawn. Phoenix and Affleck were holding a mirror up to the spiteful snakes, and the view wasn't pretty.
Critics who lauded Sofia Coppola's movies about jaded, burned-out actors, practically crucified Affleck for his 'real-life' study of the same. I'm Still Here is a brilliant, unrepeatable one-off, one of the most savage deconstructions of the fame machine ever made, which couldn't actually have been made prior to the way the media operates today. Whether it was a hoax or not was the least interesting thing about it. Yet, news agendas being crude as oil, the only thing the hacks had wanted to know was: 'Is Joaquin joa-kin?'
Today's actors love to erect quote marks around themselves, but the deliberately self-immolating Phoenix pushes way beyond that; his apparent commitment to hip-hop mirroring a real-life commitment to his method masterclass, reaching a public apogee on Letterman, during which he virtually disappears into his suit like some bizarre Victorian parlour trick. Both host and guest are walking a tightrope of improvisation – but only one of them has a safety net.
In a closing 'Rosebud' moment, our Citizen Caned wades through the river he swam in as a boy, baptising himself in the consoling, amniotic waters of adolescence. It's an achingly beautiful sequence, marking Affleck out as a director with great potential. As for Phoenix, he's now made his peace with the machine. 'Still Here', guys! No harm done. Business as usual. Meanwhile, we can only pray Mel Gibson will turn around any day soon and shout "Punk'd ya!"