Russell Crowe, the Aussie actor, has a leader-of-the-pack presence that
leaves his peers in the dust. After dazzling in L.A. Confidential
and The Insider, the fiery 36-year-old star straps on his sandals
to play an epic Roman warrior in Gladiator, a lusty performance
that brings down the Colosseum and keeps moviegoers begging for more.
Watching Russell Crowe,
you feel at any moment he may do something utterly unpredictable, possibly
apocalyptic. The tiger's paw may
lash out. His emotional nakedness
is unsettling. His essence: complex, moody, and turbulent. Where he has
played aggressively divisive characters in films as wide-ranging as Romper
Stomper, Virtuosity, L.A. Confidential, and his latest, Gladiator,
there is a curious preciseness to his willfulness, a fragility to his suffering.
Deeper in Crowe's temperament is a vein of self-protective impatience,
a ferocious honor and idealism, and an innate dignity that his rougher
public persona cannot wholly conceal. When the violence has been moral,
and emotional, as in his award-winning performance in The Insider,
the possibility of destruction is no less palpable. Whether directed inward
towards the soul, or outward towards bodily injury, Crowe willingly hurtles
into the abyss, throwing his fate over to destiny. In Los Angeles, just
over a month ago for the Academy Awards, the 36-year-old actor bucked the
glamorama, looking every inch the cowboy Everyman. As points on a map,
California is at a great remove from Crowe's Australian homestead, a working
farm seven hours north of the cosmopolitan hurly-burly of Sydney. As a
state of mind, Hollywood is a paradigm shift from the 560 acres down under
where Crowe retreats to ride horses, herd his cattle, and visit his mother,
father, and elder brother. Presently encased in that alternate reality,
a sleek black towncar, he is motoring slowly to another hotel, another
anonymous room to enjoy and forget. Even more removed from
his native environment, Crowe's physical presence remains an unspoken power.
Wearing Levi's, sunglasses, hair freshly clipped, and strong forearms visible
below the rolled up sleeves of a well-worn flannel shirt, he could be your
favorite neighbor or friend, the guy who shows you how to jump start your
car, put up your bookshelves. The one who makes you flinch by speaking
the truth. Fatigued from a lengthy
plane ride, and a long night of chain smoking and conversations, Crowe
is not in a great mood. He's out of cigarettes and clearly out of small
talk, except when it comes to his towheaded 12-year-old niece in the front
seat. He teases her with a vast array of loud noises, funny accents, and
scary faces. Decidedly unimpressed, she responds in graceful preteen style
by rolling her eyes, burrowing into her seat, and sucking loudly on her
Big Gulp. Uncle Russell shifts his attention outside the car window and
visibly perks up, a huge grin spreading across his face. "It must be love,
people!" he roars at a young couple lustily battling it out on the sidewalk;
then silent again, he watches as their ellipsing bodies retreat into the
afternoon light. If in The Insider
Crowe seemed to disappear into the paunchy, 50-something scientist (the
added girth achieved via a concentrated diet of bourbon and cheeseburgers),
in Gladiator, a $100 million take on the bloody Roman Empire directed
by Ridley Scott (whom Crowe admiringly dubs a cinematic "Dutch Master"),
he has subsumed a mythic killing machine, a brawny warrior whose convictions
are tightly wound into an unwieldy buckle of honor, hatred, and fealty. In our heroes we look
for perfection, but in the icons we adore, it's their flaws that we cherish
the most. Visioned thus, Crowe could be an archetype for us all. Spiting
the smoothing glare of celebrity and lacking the thick skin of conformity
beneath which most of us bandage our more embarrassing impulses, he's occasionally
set up by the media as a stripped-down, cocky hard case -- a no-nonsense
Clint Eastwood/Jimmy Cagney/Spencer Tracy amalgam who'd deck you just as
soon as look at you. He is fully capable of an opaque stare that can rattle
your neurons. Then there's the voice, a heated musical rumble that could
caution a running horse at thirty yards, reign in audiences on a thousand
screens, or dare a woman across a crowded room. He is aware, at times,
that people find him a bit prickly. This is partially because he tells
you what he thinks. This characteristic clarity, he notes coolly, "is not
an effort. People ask me questions. I give them answers. It's pretty simple."
He adds, "A lot of the time I think people want to be intimidated. They
want some kind of preconceived experience that has nothing to do with who
I really am. I mean, sometimes I'm doing nothing more than scratching my
nose and they take that as some kind of hugely vigorous physical act." Crowe's grandfather
was a cinematographer, and his great-grandmother was of the Maori tribe.
His dad did a spell as a hotel manager at a colorful spot nicknamed "The
Flying Jug" because of its rowdy brawls, and both parents catered film
and TV productions, which is how, at six years of age, the star-struck
youngster got his start. Crowe continued to work in television before he
proved his mettle in early films such as The Sum Of Us (playing
a gay plumber) and the aforementioned Romper Stomper (as the skinhead
leader of a gang of neo-Nazis). In his late teens he began singing and
swiveling his hips in local stage productions of Grease and The
Rocky Horror Show, strutting through the role that made Tim Curry a
star as the villainous, corseted, "sweet transvestite from transsexual
Transylvania," Dr. Frank N. Furter. Russell Crowe, chorus
boy? "When I was a little
fella," he begins, in that once-upon-a-time kind of way, "my dad taught
me how to dance. My folks went to one of those dine and dance places which
were very popular at the time, and every now and then my dad would walk
me around the floor. I know it's supposed to be a 'non-masculine pastime,'
but having that sense of rhythm can help you in different ways. You can
shift your internal beat to adapt to where you are and what you need to
do, practical things like fight routines, blocking a scene . . . sitting
in as a drummer with my band." He laughs, adding, "I used it to get into
musicals because nobody would take me seriously as an actor." At the time,
playing in Rocky Horror was one of the choicest opportunities Crowe
could imagine, but that's in the past. "These days," he says, "because
they often cast 'celebrities' in the roles, the real sexuality of the show
tends to dissipate into innuendo and crotch-scratching. It used to be recognized
as a cutting edge piece that crossed certain boundaries and gave audiences
a larger view of what sexuality really was or could be. That one and one
can sometimes equal three." Or, he adds, sometimes
just an old-fashioned two. "There is this amazing thing that my mum and
dad do when the right song is on. They dance, but it's more than that.
It's a communication you can only achieve when you've been married 38 years.
They just focus into it . . . it's a fantastic thing to watch." Days later he is far
from that familial solidity in Quito, the capital of Ecuador, shooting
Proof Of Life opposite Meg Ryan. The film follows the true-life
exploits of a corporate insurance negotiator who handles the kidnapping
and ransom demands of South American terrorists. The on-site location is
a notorious transit point for illicit narcotic traffic and money laundering,
rising nearly 11 thousand feet above sea level, plateaued on the inter-Andean
central highlands. Its famed Mount Chimborazo, at 21.5 miles above sea
level, is one of the highest points in the world. Not surprisingly, says
Crowe, "the altitude sickness can hit pretty hard. Eighteen people have
already gone home. One guy is in the hospital for a blocked artery." Recently,
massive downpours cause another series of landslides which split the second
unit team in half. And how's Crowe doing?
"Tell everyone," he purrs, "I am becoming the Salsa King of Quito!" His
birthday is tomorrow; it's been a tough few days, and to relax the other
night, he says, he and a couple of mates went over to a local artists cafe.
At the end of the evening, he says exultantly, "they put on some really
magnificent local music and we all started dancing. I had a dance with
a barmaid, she was about a 55-year-old lady, and after dancing 15 minutes
or so, she sat down at the bar and made one of those very theatrical fanning
movements with her hand, flipping her hair back and letting the perspiration
course down her neck." Crowe pauses, affecting a languid Ricardo Montalbon
accent. "She said, 'That man is a verrry good dancer.'" He laughs. "Hey,
I was just improving on all those moves I learned from Grease." And as far as the continuing
in-country dangers? He hesitates. "They're still there. There are armed
men on every street, inside every business, outside every bank, and on
the set," enough discreet guardsmen to impress the Secret Service. When
he goes out for a walk, there's always somebody nearby to watch over him.
"It's not like he walks behind me or anything. He's a good guy. A former
New Zealand regiment fella. Same canoe as far as tribal heritage. But it's
smart having him around. I guess," he remarks dryly, "they just want to
protect their interests." And if they want to come dancing, they too are
very welcome. Today we are in Los
Angeles standing on the hotel balcony with a 180 degree view of the Tinseltown
topography. Crowe's face lights up, two fingers jab towards some finite
point. Not so far in the distance looms his Gladiator billboard,
a sepia-toned monolith one hundred feet high, ruling the Sunset Strip.
Squaring off against his alter ego, voice dropping to a playful basso profundo,
he growls out the picture's tagline, "A hero . . . will rise." He laughs and begins
with a personal decree. "I prefer engaging in life rather than observing
it. Get involved! Get it all over you." And Crowe prefers full immersion.
In the Northern territory that the actor calls home, there is no highway
speed limit. During one holiday, he gathered up his mates for a road-burning,
ass-grinding, three week, four thousand mile motorbike trek. To relax,
he herds his cattle, giving nicknames to the ones he develops a soft spot
for. Crowe also puts his big-figure paycheck back into the land. Among
other things, he is reforesting his property with 80 acres of hardwood.
His favorite part of the world, he says, is "down by the main back paddock
of my place. There are these two silky oak trees..." He recites a poem he
always keeps in mind, a standard from "Clancy of the Overflow," (the Overflow
being an area of Western Queensland): "And the bush has friends
to meet him/and the kindly voices greet him/and the murmur of the breezes
and the river on its bars/and I have seen the vision splendid/of the sunlit
plains extended/and at night the wondrous glories of the everlasting stars.'" Home is also a tangible
reminder wrapped around his waist: a burly leather hobble belt, with a
small knife pouched into the side. "We have much larger paddocks than your
average country," the actor/rancher relates. "Eighty 120-acre paddocks
on mine . . . and if you have to get off your horse to help a cow while
she's giving birth . . . or to check that the buffalo fly drenches have
taken hold and all that kind of stuff." He gauges the distance
between us, then slowly unbuckles his belt, sliding it out of its loops.
He gently drops to his knees at my feet. Taking the belt, he forms a loose
figure-eight interlock around my ankles, then buckles the opposing ends.
I look down. Crowe leans back on his heels and looks up. "When you hobble
a horse, he can't gallop, but he can still move. If he really tries he
can get about a half-mile away. But mostly, he goes, 'Ah, screw it. I'll
just stay here and wait.'" I've been humbled by
many interviews, but never hobbled, and that's only a minor achievement
for Crowe. In Gladiator, he tangles with an eye-popping genre spectacle
that reinvents the early Christian epoch. With chariot races, bloodsports,
and the rampaging forces of nature, this is a fever-dream commingling of
spaghetti western, Ben Hur, Spartacus, and Lawrence Of Arabia
quadrangled into a brutal extravaganza, both gorgeous to the eye and wrenching
to the soul. Even the characters were born to have exclamation points struck
after their names. Joaquin Phoenix plays the twisted young Emperor, beauteous
Connie Nielsen is his steely sister, Derek Jacobi a savvy Roman senator,
(the late) Oliver Reed portrays the cruel gladiator trainer, and Djimon
Hounsou a noble fellow slave. Crowe is the picture's centrifugal force
-- Maximus Decimus Meridius -- a super-glandular moniker for the Roman
general who is forced into slavery only to reemerge as the fierce title
character, who then exacts revenge on his tormentors. Crowe spent months
in Morocco and Malta learning the art of war, buffeted by wind storms,
stuffed in heavy armor, splitting skulls, and wielding real metal swords.
In the pursuit of excellence, he also cracked a bone in his foot and fractured
his right hip. There's a Gladiator scene in which tigers leap at
his throat, and when Crowe wrestles them to the ground, the viewer worries
a bit for the poor cats. "That's just a trick," he yawns. "That's the easy
stuff. When they decided to do stuff on their own, that's when you have
a problem." After Proof Of Life,
and prior to metamorphosing into a love-struck circus freak for director
Jodie Foster's Flora Plum in the fall, Crowe will plant himself
in Austin, Texas, for two blissful months to soak up sounds, gig in local
clubs, and record a new album with his longtime rock band, Thirty Odd Foot
Of Grunts, a.k.a. TOFOG. Now a six-man outfit, Crowe formed the band more
than a decade ago -- way before his film career took off -- with
high school buddy Dean Cochrane. (You can find them on the Internet at
www.gruntland.com.) Admittedly, Crowe is
driving himself rather hard, "but this is just one of those periods when
it's best to stay up a little later," he says, prowling the hotel balcony's
parameters. "Enjoy life a little longer," he adds. "Why not? Next thing
you know, I'll be doing 14, 15 hour days. When you get more responsibility,
it takes up more time, and I tend to work with fellas who hire me because
they want me to become an expert in that particular role . . . almost like
a kind of spelling checker. If there's anything wrong, the really smart
ones, like Curtis Hanson (L.A. Confidential) or Michael Mann (The
Insider),
want you to bring it up before you start shooting, and I
don't mind, so long as it makes the thing better. Some actors don't like
to get found out, but I prefer prior to the cameras rolling, because none
of it counts. It only matters what the finished product is." In the living room,
his niece is curled up reading a magazine. There is a guitar leaning on
a chair. Breakfast leftovers are still on the table. Every inanimate object
in open sight has been handled, tossed, or rumpled. "Do you want to hear
some music?" Crowe rumbles cheerfully from the bedroom. "I travel with
one bag full of books . . . the other bag full of clothes," he says, rummaging
through another one of his bags, stuffed with cassettes, looking for a
demo tape of songs that TOFOG recently recorded. An old sunglasses case
contains his collection of crosses and religious medallions which people
have given him over the years. One of which is a seventeenth century wooden
Jesuit priest's cross. When traveling, he will search his suitcases to
find the case, then pick it up and shake it, reassured by the sound. The talk turns to music.
"Patsy Cline," he declares unequivocally, when I ask him to name his favorite
Country-Western singer. "I also really like [slide guitar master] Junior
Brown. He's fucking great." Crowe thumps another cassette into the stereo.
"I can't wait to get to Austin again. I've only been there for a short
time, but when I'm there, there's five or six bands to see every night.
And Austin," he promises tantalizingly, "is where the band and I plan to
create some absolute mayhem." He turns up the volume on the stereo. though
he has said, self-disparingly, that he "sucks as a singer," and has reminded
me several times that this is only a demo, the band sounds tight and he
has a rather good voice. "I'm never going to be a really great singer,"
he says, downplaying his passion, "but that doesn't bother me. The story
is what I'm all about . . . the funny thing is, I'm starting to sound like
I was trying to sound when I was 16, 17 years old. My voice is getting
closer to the intention of the lyrics." The next tune is more mellow. "Breathe
in, don't sigh . . ." his husky voice croons. "It's a good piece of advice,
aye?" he queries over the music. "Honestly, it's the best advice I ever
got. Breathe in more than you breathe out," he adds, eyes aglow. "People
get so exasperated with life. They won't let things just happen. "This isn't a convenient
job, by any means," he continues. "The business isn't constructed to go
on hold, and for me, it's been one of those years where many things that
I want to do converge. Still," he asserts, "A little insanity is good for
clarity, don't you think? You have to deal with what comes up. You have
to think about things deeply . . . to learn to talk to your own heart.
I do it all the time. If I can't . . . how the hell is someone else supposed
to?" From our balcony outpost,
Crowe spots a close friend walking towards the hotel 15 stories below.
He whistles to him, sweet and low. His mate looks up instantly, waving
a pack of cigarettes meaningfully. "We've been doing that a long time,"
he says companionably as his friend disappears into the building. "If we're
in a room somewhere and we want to talk . . . or when I'm working the horse
in the bush, working with cattle, it's easier than calling out. If you
call out, you'll interrupt what the dogs are doing; but a whistle . . .
a whistle can cut through the noise and murmur of a thousand people." They say when you take
on an Australian, you take on a whole continent, and that's a whole lot
of terrain to cover. But in that next moment, all we did was stand still
with the world spread out beneath us, saying nothing. It felt very peaceful.
Sweet as a biscuit.
