Who the Hell's in It

by Peter Bogdanovich

  Nevertheless, on that night outside the hospital, I thought River probably had taken something. He said at the time that he was still doing his cold prescriptions but later, after the shooting ended, he admitted to having been a little high outside the hospital (he didn’t say on what) and having had as a result, he thought, one of his most transcendent moments in acting. Certainly, he’s pain-filled, intense, empathetic and riveting in the sequence, but it took longer to get done than it should have—though we were also rewriting as we went—and part of the scene involved two or three lines from a song of River’s which he was still composing. The producers on the set, however, and subsequently some of the studio executives, were very troubled by that night, and this became the final straw for them with River: many turned conclusively against him.

  In fact, there were no real problems, and his singing came off terrifically, much of it shot live. River was a very gifted musician, had a fine sense of lyrics and phrasing, worked very hard on every song, was totally dedicated to the work. I went to a recording studio while he was working with the formidable T-Bone Burnett, the arranger-producer we had hired for River’s songs. River had recommended we get T-Bone and, since I was an admirer of a couple of Burnett’s own albums, it was an easy sale. T-Bone and River got along wonderfully, both being deeply respectful of the other’s talents and ability. Watching River in a recording studio was like seeing a painter at his easel—he was so at home there. For some reason, everybody appeared to take his singing for granted, as though of course he could just do that—but then he did make it look easy, which was enormously impressive.

  Our having become somewhat second-class citizens at the studio, there was no wrap party scheduled by the producers, so River and Samantha decided to chip in together and throw one at a funky little Japanese karaoke club out near Culver City. It was a rainy night and a part of the club’s roof started to leak, but it couldn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. The cast and crew all had a good time celebrating the conclusion of a very demanding job. During some karaoke singing, there was a sudden blast of enthusiasm about my getting up and doing one. I said, no, I didn’t think so, but River was beside me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He cajoled and badgered, so eventually I went up, looked at the list of selections and picked Sinatra’s “My Way,” which I tried to personalize ruefully as I went along. A couple of times I thought, What am I doing here?! But then I would look down and see River gazing up at me with the most encouraging, sympathetic expression I’ve ever seen on a man. He was smiling, excited, and totally with me. At one point, there were tears in his eyes. Naturally, this made me give my all for River’s sake—as you do for a good director—which is what I told him later. My performance was a hit but what I’ll never forget is the entirely focused look of unconditional affection on River’s face.

  This was also the beginning of my introduction to the real River Phoenix. Of course, he had just completed playing James. By the time he had totally shed the character he’d been acting, there was a boyish, shaggy-haired enthusiasm and guileless charm to River. The contrast was especially noticeable a couple of months later when, having gone to Florida and then Costa Rica to be with his family, River came back to Los Angeles to do the required post-production dubbing of dialogue. Here was the sharp, brooding character on-screen, and the barefoot Huck Finn watching from the dubbing booth. River’s mother, Heart Phoenix, accompanied him on this trip, and to the dubbing sessions, where we met for the first time. She had a remarkably powerful presence—a quiet, warm, sensitive and loving nature—soft-spoken yet intense and extremely in-the-moment. River’s genuine deference to Heart and their affection for one another was both palpable and completely unself-conscious. I think maybe he had invited her to join him in Los Angeles to help keep away temptations he knew weren’t good for him. His time with the family had clearly invigorated and cleansed him.

  Redoing some of James’ dialogue, therefore, was not so easy. He had let go of most of that guy, and it was a struggle to get him back. Because of a major technical error by the picture’s editorial staff, in early screenings of the movie River’s original sound-recordings inadvertently were not used; poorly transferred duplications were heard instead, which badly muddied his readings, made them hard to understand. I knew he hadn’t sounded that way when we shot the stuff, but now it was coming out poorly. The edict became: re-record every single line of River’s. Torturously, we went through it, and River kept saying the original had to be better. Whenever we asked that the original be played back, it sounded fine now, having been prepared afresh by the sound-effects crew. So why were we redoing it? I told River we had better just complete the ugly deed, but not to worry because I would use the original lines wherever possible. River begged me to use them all, because he didn’t think his looping was very good—clearer, maybe, but not nearly as much in character. As it turned out, though we re-recorded all of River’s dialogue, thus alleviating studio fears, we actually used virtually none of this in the final mix. Having finally discovered what the actual problem had been, we just ended up using all the original tracks, though we never told anyone, and nobody ever complained again.

  The first time River saw the movie was at a rough-cut screening in the studio theater. He was excited about it, critical of some of the editing of the songs, wanting me to address these more carefully—he was right—but extremely complimentary of the overall work. During the sequence at the Disney Ranch—a line-dance party under a full moon—on River’s urging, I had ridden a horse into an extreme long shot we made. When this appeared on-screen, River called out loudly, “That’s Peter on the horse!” He was such an exuberant, loving kid.

  Since River was very concerned about my using some different singing takes of his, I said he should come up to the cutting room and go over those with me. He loved that idea and, a day or so later, he and I ran a number of his shots in the editing rooms. I didn’t realize quite how unhappy this made the editorial staff. (As a rule, post-production people tend to be suspicious of actors and all production people. And vice versa.) River and I had a great time. It was very interesting and helpful to see which takes he felt were best, especially in the crucial singing scenes, during which River did a considerable variety of different expressions as he sang: more and less arrogant; more and less mannered; harder and softer. Again, River’s judgments were impressive, and I agreed with him entirely. Since the editors had in many cases chosen other takes, aggravation was only exacerbated.

  The next day, I was called by one of the executives who expressed dismay and concern, having heard that I was having “actors in the editing rooms.” I said River had been very constructive and I didn’t see any problems. Well, the studio had a problem with it, and would appreciate keeping the editing room closed to outsiders. River and I had been looking forward to more sessions. Watching me cut was instructive for him, he told me; and I said his input as usual was terrific. It was also fun having River around on whatever pretext, but that editing session together was our only one.

  A day or so later, River and Sam, Dermot and his talented wife, Catherine Keener, and Anthony Clark all came over to my Beverly Hills home to see a tape of John Ford’s The Grapes of Wrath. River had heard me talking about the picture and Henry Fonda’s performance, and was anxious to look at it. He hadn’t seen many older films, he said, and felt ashamed about his ignorance of picture history. River’s reactions to the movie were very fresh and uncomplicated by knowledge of either the John Steinbeck novel or much of anything about Ford. He was deeply impressed by the darkness of the Okies’ true Depression story, by the striking black-and-white photography and by the transfixing brilliance of Henry Fonda’s portrayal of Tom Joad. Now River was excited at the prospect of our running many older films together, but this would be the only time we had.

  One of the first things River had done when he entered the house was to spot my South American housekeeper in the kitchen. He kicked off his shoes, checked out the refrigerator for something to eat, gra
bbed some salad, flipped himself onto one of the kitchen counters, and struck up a conversation in Spanish with Maria, asking all about herself and her family. He was totally absorbed by this while the rest of us got drinks and chatted. River stayed with Maria until we were ready to start the movie. Maria never saw him again but she always afterward asked about “Mister River.” When he died, she grieved for him.

  Following the movie, River took us all to his favorite Los Angeles restaurant, Ten Masa, a Japanese family-owned establishment on the Sunset Strip. Everything was “so fresh” there, River kept saying. River was a vegetarian. The whole family worked the place—father, mother, sons and daughters—and every one of them called out to River as he walked in. Clearly, they adored him. The mother had baked special bread for his party. River went back to the kitchen, embraced the mother, was very friendly with everyone in the most openly generous way. He especially loved the Oshitashi spinach, which he ate, like nearly everything else, with his fingers.

  Meanwhile, the studio was in conflict as to how to sell our picture and what its final form ought to be. There were a number of invitational previews, all with wildly conflicting reactions, none indicating a solid hit. Cuts were requested and argued and made or not. But compromise reigned. The music department was splintered into about three factions, each pulling for different songs to be on the track, over the main or end titles, and on the album. The publicity and marketing people had various terrific poster ideas yet somehow we ended up with the worst one, using neither River’s nor Dermot’s likenesses, only Samantha’s, in a halfhearted attempt to sell the film as a young women’s picture. When River saw this poster, he simply congratulated Samantha, told her the photo of her was great, and said not another word, but I knew he was hurt.

  Moments showing River’s erudition were requested cut, whole sequences were discussed as worthy of jettisoning. In this climate, it was all a negotiation. At one point, when things were really getting out of hand, Sherry Lansing said that in her opinion, the picture should be edited in “Peter’s version,” and that we should go with that. Her word became the final one, and saved a good many things from being lost, but not everything. River and I really regretted the loss of a couple of his most poetic moments, and one of his songs. The movie that was released wasn’t quite the picture we shot; about 90 percent survived, and sometimes 10 percent can make the difference between success or failure, mediocrity or enduring quality. Someday I hope the version of The Thing Called Love that River and I really made can be seen; it was just that much better and more unusual.

  River Phoenix and Harrison Ford became very close while working on The Mosquito Coast (1986), directed by Peter Weir, based on the novel by Paul Theroux. Three years later River played Harrison as a young man in the beginning of Steven Spielberg’s Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

  The final distribution decision was ultimately disastrous, releasing the film first in the South and West as a country-music picture when it was actually closer to an art-house movie. In fact, that was the main problem: the final picture fell between two stools, and wound up on the floor. River, Sam, Dermot, Sandy and I all showed up in Dallas for the publicity junket preceding the opening of the film. River blazed through his numerous press and TV interviews in a kind of intense James-like state. This was not his favorite job—selling and promoting a movie—but he was a good sport.

  The next afternoon we all went to see River’s friend Harrison Ford in his just-released new film, The Fugitive. River was an ardent movie fan—he got into the picture entirely—into the plot and into the way it was told, and especially into Harrison’s performance. It was a lot of fun seeing that picture with River—his audible and physically obvious enjoyment of the work doubled the pleasure. That night, River drank a lot of beers and got a little noisy in the hall. Samantha was upset and went to bed early. My wife, Louise, and a close friend of hers from Vancouver, B.C., named Carrie Brown, and I hung out with River until it got late, and though he wasn’t out of control, he clearly was drinking too much, or hyped up on something. I had to go to Arizona the next day for a promotional appearance, but Louise and Carrie stayed on with River for an extra day. He took them back to see The Fugitive again.

  Later, Louise would tell me that River had been very sweet to Carrie. In those days, Carrie was a bit overweight, but when he first met her, River looked at her for a long moment and then said with great intensity, “You are so beautiful!” Carrie would never forget that. Louise said he was terribly funny and charming with them; referring to the Van Zant film, he called it My Own Private Potato. He raved about his brother Joaquin’s acting talents, saying Joaquin was extraordinarily gifted, a much better actor than he himself was—he said that more than once. When River went a little over the top with the booze—at one point ordering “forty-seven bottles of beer” through room service—Carrie got angry and told him he was endangering his life and ought to be more respectful of his own great talent. River was quickly becalmed by these remarks, and swore he wouldn’t touch a thing once he got home again to Florida, where he was heading next. Dallas turned out to be the last place Louise or Carrie or I saw River alive.

  A few days afterward, he and I spoke on the phone. He said he was feeling good, working on a CD with his sister Rain. He said I should tell Louise and Carrie he had kept his promise—he was back to a healthy life, he told me. He had to beg off going to the Montreal World Film Festival screening of our movie because he was really into the album, into singing, and playing music. He hoped I understood. The picture had also been invited to the Vienna Film Festival, but by then he would be shooting a new film, the working title of which was Dark Blood. After that he was going to do Interview with the Vampire and there were two or three other big pictures on which Iris Burton was in negotiation. He sounded very happy to be home. Sam was there, too.

  The picture was glowingly received in Montreal, by the public, the press, and by some of my peers. Several critics—all of whom were bowled over by River’s transformation—said they were holding their rave reviews in anticipation of the film’s imminent opening. As it turned out, The Thing Called Love was never commercially released in Montreal. Nor in a lot of other places. After its two-week Southwestern tryout had been disappointing, the movie was for all intents and purposes shelved, and readied for its automatic ancillary markets. As a gesture to me, people said, Sherry Lansing agreed to a winter booking in Seattle to test another marketing approach. This would be after Louise and I returned from the Vienna showing. River said he would help to promote the new opening as best he could, though he’d still be shooting Dark Blood. All of us hid our discouragement from one another, and hoped maybe we could turn things around in November.

  In September, I agreed to do a guest shot as myself on an episode of the popular TV series, Northern Exposure, and called River to tell him. Because of our director-actor thing, I knew he’d be amused and enthusiastic. He was shooting Dark Blood on location in Utah and it took a bit of organizing to get together on the phone. Just when we finally did, his co-star, English actor Jonathan Pryce, with whom he got on famously, dropped in to rehearse. River asked me to hold on and explained to Pryce that we’d been trying to reach each other, and could Jonathan come back in twenty minutes. And so River and I spoke animatedly for about half an hour.

  He sounded crystal clear and completely grounded. He said he’d been clean of any kind of substance for three months, and was feeling great. The film was heavy, he said, but interesting. One of his co-stars didn’t get on well with the director, which was a drag, but he loved Jonathan Pryce. As I expected, he was excited and encouraging about my TV gig. I said I’d call him after the Vienna screening and tell him how the picture had been received there. When would that be? River asked. Toward the end of October, I said, and then Louise and I were going on a short vacation. We would be arriving back in Los Angeles right around Halloween. River noted that he’d be in Los Angeles by then, finishing Dark Blood, and that we could see each other, and I co
uld describe the Vienna showing in person. Since it was so hard to get each other on the phone—and even tougher with me in Europe—we just made a date to have dinner on the night of November 1. Pretty soon, Jonathan Pryce came back, so we wished each other good luck, and sent love back and forth and both said we were looking forward to seeing each other. We never did again, and that was the last time River and I spoke.

  The picture was so well received in Vienna that I almost tried to reach River wherever he was by then to tell him right away what a particular hit he had been with critics and audiences. But I knew the odds were poor, and we’d be seeing each other in about ten days. So Louise and I went on our vacation, and flew back to Los Angeles on Halloween, nonstop from Genoa, where an old friend and his wife and young daughter got aboard. The noted screenwriter-director Robert Towne and I had known each other since the mid-1960s when we both were working for Roger Corman. During part of the twelve-hour flight back, he and I caught up. Mostly, I raved about River Phoenix. Bob was equally effusive about a young star he’d just been working with, Johnny Depp.

  When we arrived at LAX, Bob and his family got separated from us for a while, but just as we were nearing the exit where greeters wait, we ran into each other again. Bob looked troubled and confused. He said he hated to tell me this but he’d just heard someone talking and they said, “Wasn’t it too bad River Phoenix had been killed.” I almost laughed—what was he talking about!? Bob said he had overheard two people talking. “But that’s impossible,” I said, and Louise shrugged it off, too. Some crazy rumor. Bob said he certainly hoped so. I said it couldn’t be. My mind was racing: Could it be? A car accident? A fight? No, it wasn’t anything. But when I saw that my longtime assistant, Iris Chester, was waiting gravely for us with the driver, I realized something had to be wrong: Iris had never before come to meet us at an airport. I asked what was the matter. Iris said she hadn’t wanted me to see it on TV, but River had died tonight. Seems to have been some sort of drug overdose. It happened while we were on the plane. He had passed away on the sidewalk in front of the Viper Room, a club owned by Johnny Depp.