the mockumentary I’m Still Here—a movie
that further complicated the line between
reality and ction when director Casey
Aeck was sued for untoward behavior
by two female crew members—before
returning with a bravura performance in
The Master, as the unhinged devotee of an
L. Ron Hubbard–like quasi-religious lead-
er. That began a run of nely wrought indie
performances. “From a very young age, I
had an allergy to—what’s the word?—to
just frivolous, meaningless kids’ stu
,” he
says. “From an extremely young age. And
I don’t know why. I’m sure you want some
Freudian explanation, perhaps there is.”
Observing the darkness in his work, it’s
tempting to look for its source in his per-
sonal history. It wasn’t long ago that he
was still being referred to as “the second
most famous Phoenix,” his name associ-
ated most closely with the death of his
cult-legend brother, River, in 1993, which
Joaquin witnessed, along with sister Rain,
in front of the Viper Room on Sunset Bou-
levard, then co-owned by Johnny Depp.
The public memory of his brother has
faded enough that Joaquin is now the most
familiar Phoenix, but the tragedy is never
far for Joaquin himself. In part that’s
because reporters never stop asking him
about it. But he was also deeply inuenced
by his brother, and by his death, even if he
remains reluctant to draw a straight line
between his unusual background and his
private tragedy and his talent for inhabit-
ing the morose, damaged, violent, and
otherwise anxiety-riddled characters he
takes on—roles he seems vividly made for.
“I try not to fucking think about that,”
he says, with that half-comic ambiguity.
“Why am I doing this fucking interview?
You’re going to ruin my acting.”Hoodie and
T-shirt by
Saint Laurent by
Anthony
Vaccarello;
pants by
Wacko Maria.