River Phoenix: Young Man River

We're sitting in an enclosed porch that runs the length of the two-story, Reconstruction era house River rents. Two canaries use the tops of our heads as temporal vistas in their revolving bird world, which, by the design of River and his live-in companion, Suzanne Solgot, includes the entire porch. This is the first chance I've had to actually talk to River, and I want to know, for starters, what the hell all this hornbook 'n' hearth education and lapsed Children of Godders business is about. But it's hard to get serious with the tickling claws of a canary running over the bridge of my nose.

"So, were you guys Banana Republic moonies, or what?"

"Oh, my God, no," River stretches out his legs and chuckles at them. "It was honest to goodness missionary work my parents were doing. They were archbishops of South America, just before we broke from the church. What happened was, my dad started finding out stuff, getting into top secret categories, like that the leader was involved in fraud, a big hypocrite, and this group wasn't as wholesome as they led people to believe. I'd rather not even mention the name of the group, simply be-cause I'd rather not lend credence to them by doing so. One day my parents just said, 'We're outta here.'

"But it was a great stepping stone. I learned to play guitar there--my sister Rain [short for Rainbow] and I got interested in entertaining, performing. It was a neat time growing up in Venezuela in the late '70s--Carter. I remember hearing news about hostages. Where was that?"

"Iran."

"You're kidding. The Olympics were held in Iran?"

"Oh, no, no, you must be thinking of the 1972 Olympics, and Munich," I correct him, referring to the attack on the Olympic Village in which members of the Israeli wrestling team were murdered by Palestinian terrorists. River would've been two years old at the time. Living not in a hut on a South American beach but in Madras, Oregon, his birthplace. The words to James Brown's "Don't Be a Dropout" make a wicked loop through my brain.

"So somehow your family managed to leave South America."

"Well, first my sister Rain and I did a lot of singing in the streets," River explains. "Then we met this doctor who used to be a pop star in Spain. He had a recording studio in Orlando, Florida, and he told us we could come out whenever we wanted to. We got his number, showed it to my dad. We had no money. So a priest got us on this old Tonka freighter that carried Tonka toys. We were stowaways. The crew discovered us halfway home-- my mom was pregnant, all of us running around, four kids. They threw a big birthday party for my brother, gave us all these damaged Tonka toys--it was a blast."

Through the screen door, I can see Suzanne approaching. When she reaches the screen, she presses her T-shirt up against it.

"Can you read what it says on my shirt, Riv?" she asks, in no particular hurry to come in. "Hi, baby. What's it say?"

"It says," she reads, straightening the shirt over her chest, " 'Damn the rules. It's the feeling that counts. You play all twelve notes in your solo anyway'--John Coltrane." She says "hi" to the photographer and me, and then says to River, "Don't let them sit on the bird shit."

Suzanne steps in, an attractive 26-year-old whose non-aligned good cheer could crumble a hardened bunker. River's slouch disappears and he brightens. Honeypie Ice Cream, the male canary, lands on my knee. When he takes off, he leaves a small, army-green legacy on my pants.

"It's best if you let it dry and then just flick it off," Suzanne suggests.

River excuses himself for a moment, and when he comes back, his face is covered with a dry, face-tightening application of white cream-- Marcel Marceau at a Grateful Dead Concert. Wearing his skin mask, he elaborates further on the family's exodus from South America.

"When we finally made it to Florida, we stayed with my grandparents for a while, then moved to central Florida. My sister and I pursued our interest in music, playing in talent shows and fairs. My dad was doing carpentry work, my mom was working for some community service agency."

"And what about school?"

"We went to school," he insists. When I recount the articles claiming that his parents kept the children out of school, River's mouth goes Macaulay- Culkin-via-Edvard-Munch incredulous.

"Bullshit. Besides, any good family would teach their children at home, above and beyond school. And as far as 'having our careers thrust upon us,' that's bullshit, too. We wanted to make it, we all wanted to be entertainers and our parents did whatever they could do to help us."

What evidently helped the most was mother Arlyn's schoolgirl friendship with Penny Marshall back in the Bronx, After recognizing Marshall on an episode of "Laverne & Shirley," Arlyn wrote to Paramount studios about her kids.

'They answered, yeah, we'd be happy to see your children. If you're ever out in California, by all means, look us up, but don't make a special trip. And so, of course, we just threw everything into the old station wagon and drove out to Burbank. We had a shitty little apartment in North Hollywood. No kids were allowed so we had to hide in the closet when the landlady came around to inspect the place."

The female canary, which unaccountably has no name, is using the screen door as an obstacle course, clanging her way up the mesh, but getting hung up in the protective grate.

"No! Don't do that!" River scolds her, and damned if she doesn't listen.

"So you did the TV commercial schlepp, I bet."

"We schlepped forever in LA.," River nods, with a vigilant eye on the canary. "Moved every three months, being evicted regularly for late rent, for kids, for whatever. We just kept it so we'd rather be poor than owe anybody money. So we didn't have any debts, but we had no money whatsoever--it was just day to day. Biggest problem was, I was terrible for commercials--I couldn't smile on cue. And I'm terrible with pictures, too." This last remark is loudly directed at Michael the photographer, who's busy setting up lights. "I hate it. Bank right," River leans slyly into the imaginary camera. "Bank left. I don't want a bunch of makeup artists pimping me."

"Hey, River," Michael dishes it back, "I told Warren Beatty I was coming to see you."

"What'd he say?"

"He said, 'Yeah, River Phoenix. I like the guy. What is he, 40 now?'"

"I'm very glamorous, aren't I?" says River. Actually, his shirttails look like used hankies. And the hair, over which the birds are jousting for airspace, is in need of a comb.

Sensing that having his picture taken carries with it the agony of the sinner before his confessor, I ask permission to browse, which River appreciatively grants. The house has a wonderfully nostalgic flophouse quality, with furniture moved to accommodate temporary sleeping arrangements. A sheeted mattress is surrounded by the clutter of books and empty plates. The stair-case, finished with an early-American bannister, leads to nowhere. Positioned in the middle of the dining room is a leather examination table with a toilet seat-shaped collar fixed to one end. In the midst of wall tapestries and house plants, it cuts a queer apparition. It seems Suzanne is studying to become a massage therapist.

"I use it to perform on friends," says Suzanne, who met River three years ago at a party. "But until I get my license, I can't really charge anyone."

"When we first met," she continues, now talking about River, "he seemed really sweet and gentle. At least he's getting some hair now. When I met him he didn't have any hair." Suzanne is a self-possessed, independent sort. In fact, she points to a virtual emblem of her independence--an empty suitcase propped in the comer of the room. "I got it as a present for my 18th birthday."

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