|Today marks the end of the Prime Minister of Thailand.
||[Sep. 20th, 2006.08:06 am]
Sofia laughed at me when I said I'd fuck it all up. She gave me a dubious look and starts going on in one breath about how silly it was of me to think that. She can't think of anyone else, she says, who would have fit the role better. It's my hair, isn't it? It's the fact that you've been wanting me to shave the facial growth for years and you had a chance to force me into it. Or maybe it's because you like to play dress up and watch me rock out to Gang Of Four. Fuck it up, she's streamlining words again and I can't even understand her because she's laughing so hard. You're perfect. You're perfect, Jason. And that was the end of the discussion.
It's not like I have low self confidence, because I don't. It's just a feeling you get when you're taking on a role you've never even thought of before. Method acting. Slip into that role and hold it, squeeze it for all its worth, wake up and breathe it in the morning and shower with it before bed. You open your eyes and you're looking that role in the face, because it's your bed mate for the next few months. It doesn't save you from being nervous and wondering all the possible ways for you to make a complete jackass out of yourself for every audience member in the world to see. Welcome to Cannes. It was beautiful out and Kirsten was there, and she held my hand-- Really, I held hers, I was mulling over the idea of pitching myself into the crowd in hopes to be sprung through with a pitchfork by the invisible rebellious Frenchmen when I reached over and grabbed for her and she was right there-- And smiled and gracefully laughed when I told her my theory on revolutionary countrymen. Sofia was still amused that I was so nervous, and she pulled me off to tell me to stop worrying and think of something fantastic. Something exciting. Something not related to the film at all.
Is this what I'm meant to be doing with my life? Each click from the photographers rung out in my imagination a little louder than normal almost answering the question onomatopoeia style. Yes, Jason, click. This is it, click. Click, this is your life. But what if there's more to it? There was the music, click. Now there's the acting, click, and it's all, click, a part of you. Maybe. Maybe I have a deeper purpose. Maybe there's more that I'm supposed to do. Maybe I'm supposed to be raising hell with the PETA groups and protesting outside of Milan Fashion Week. Maybe I'm supposed to be cooking Prince Charles' last meal. Maybe I'm supposed to be a pesticide worker in the Valley. Maybe I'm supposed to be the asshole that doesn't tip their waiter after eating a 6 course fully loaded meaty meal (mmm, meat /sarcasm). Maybe I'm supposed to play God. Click.
I have faith in this movie. I believe it brings more to the table than your average biopic on a dead celebrity. Jim Morrison may have been a rock God, but he didn't go without sex for years. That gives you depth. You try laying in bed with a banging Austrian and not getting any and see how many more number one chart toppers you're actually going to make. It's heavy. Sofia captured every aspect that there was to capture in that time period-- The beauty, the youth, the intelligence, the sheer inertia that plagued the Higher Court due to mass consumption of frivolities, cake, and champagne. The repression. The reformation. The end of an era. It doesn't make me panic any less, though. Rob says I over analyze shit that should just be allowed to happen. I don't let it flow, is the verbatim testament, and I'm not going to argue that because I know he's right. Doesn't stop it from happening, though. I forgot to tip my waitress today when I wrote out the pay on the credit card slip. One step closer to reaching higher divinity.