By Chris Lane
By Jef With One F
By Chris Lane
By Olivia Flores Alvarez
By Angelica Leicht
By Jef Rouner
By Jef With One F
By Jef With One F
Until this moment--this shrill outburst that comes out of nowhere and startles both interviewer and subject--Marisa Tomei had been speaking in hushed tones, like someone making funeral arrangements. Every so often, she would punctuate her sentences with giggles--some nervous, some delirious--but suddenly, she is laughing uncontrollably like someone so amused with herself she barely notices anyone else in the room. The conversation up to this point had been about one thing, more or less: What the hell happened to Tomei's career? She even started the interview by griping about the lack of good romantic comedies, the dearth of good roles; she was hinting that she has made bad choices and that others have made bad choices for her. She was trying to explain the unfathomable: Why did a woman who won an Academy Award only a few years ago disappear in a list of films that gather dust on video-store rental shelves?
Then, suddenly, it hits her.
"I'm retiring! Hangin' up my crown!" She begins giggling again. Her legs dangle over the arms of her oversized hotel-suite chair. Her mouth opens wide, as though she's been punched in the stomach, and out spills a high-pitched laugh that bounces around the room until it dulls to an echo. One is tempted to look around for a camera.
This is why it's a bad idea to interview actors. They are always on stage, in front of the camera, playing to the cheap seats. So much drama, especially when they have to recite their own lines and not those penned for them. Just a few minutes earlier, Tomei had been talking about why she wanted to become an actor, and why her profession of choice had let her down. She was talking about how she wanted to be one of those honest actors, revealing great truths while wearing someone else's clothes and speaking someone else's lines and standing where someone else told her to stand. "It's me expressing myself through a character," she insists, "and I get to be honest through this character."
Only, she is explaining, she's never had that chance, not really. Maybe once or twice, she says: in My Cousin Vinny, for which she won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her turn as a loudmouth New Yawkuh, or A Brother's Kiss, a small 1997 film directed by her friend Seth Zvi Rosenfeld. But with the exception of a handful of big, fleshed-out roles in small, little-seen films (among them The Perez Family in 1995, Welcome to Sarajevo two years later, and 1998's Slums of Beverly Hills), her filmography reads like The Movie Channel's late-night lineup. It's pockmarked with films that made pennies on the dollar, movies that were released on video and on airplanes (where, rumor has it, audiences tried to walk out on Only You, a tepid, obvious romantic comedy in which she was overwhelmed by Robert Downey Jr.). Earlier this year, she appeared in The Watcher, a serial-killer movie so wretched that Keanu Reeves disowned it before its release.
"The problem is," she begins, "there always comes that moment on the set when you have to lie to make the other characters look better--so the leading guy doesn't look like an asshole. It was kind of heartbreaking when I started film acting, because I didn't realize that, and it's something I've come to accept--that it's not an actor's medium. It's the director's medium, and then after the director comes the editor, then the studio. It's about those things. But you accept it, because I still really love movies, and I still find it a challenge to try to keep getting that vision across. Because being a hired gun sucks. Being a hired gun, you're just always...selling, because you're looking to get hired." She laughs, but not because she finds what she's said particularly funny. "I don't like that part of it.
"But, I mean, how can I get my vision across? I'm not in charge of the camera. I'm not in charge of the overall thing, and that's fine. It's not that I want to be in charge of the movie. I don't ever want to be. I don't have that desire. But I would just like to understand where I fit in and what I'm part of. I don't think I picked well, but I didn't know how to pick. Then I just go back full circle to: I was young; I was a kid; I didn't know. How could I know? What I've learned is, if the script is still sitting there and I can't decide, I am trying to convince myself and force myself, or someone else is telling me it's good for me, and it turns out to be a disaster for me spiritually. What we're really talking about is spiritual. It's hard to talk about, because it sounds so silly."
When she does turn up in major films, when she does get the chance to communicate her "vision," she is buried so deep in the credits, archeologists are called in to retrieve her. Hers is the best performance in the sitcom-smarmy What Women Want, in which she plays a manic, skittish coffee-shop girl in lust with Mel Gibson's rat-pack ad exec, but she's relegated to the margins--the afterthought who steals the show. Little wonder she has come to refer to herself as a "character actor" and a "hired gun"; that is what happens when those who have been told they're special wake up one morning and realize they're now thought of as ordinary.