River Phoenix: Young Man River

When he jumps into the Plymouth the following morning, River is wearing the same threadbare print shirt hanging out of the same migrant worker pants he wore the previous day, "Jesus, River, you slept in your goddamn clothes."

"No, man--I slept in a blanket of warm flesh."

Blake has called for a vocal session out at the ranch, and River wants me to see the place by daylight. Halfway there, River's cranked up with Lennon's "Imagine" playing on the radio.

'The fucking asshole who shot Lennon is in some Mafia prison, can you believe it? John Lennon was bumped off because of his pro-environment stand. If John Lennon said, Turn off your televisions now guys, we'll save electricity for two days straight,' fucking three million people instantly in America would've done it. If John Lennon would've said, 'Please,' over the airwaves, 'please don't vote for Ronald Reagan'--you're telling me that three million people going in to vote for their president wouldn't have been canceled out?" River takes a deep, cleansing breath of the air rushing in from the windows. As we get closer, the fertile peat and weed rot odor fills the car.

"It's the gators," River smiles.

The ranch by day is overwrought with the buzz and croak of living creatures, a terrestrial arc of biology.

"You wanna see a gator?" River asks. Hell, yeah. "Take a dip out there," he grins, pointing to the swamp beyond the wire fence running off into the landscape. The swimming pool, a stark blue rise in the flats of a meadow, is littered with dead frogs who've blindly hopped from the underbrush in the middle of the night. The frog population takes a beating in the ecosystem down here.

At the end of the recording session, we're standing in a circle, having beers in front of the main house. Blake is moaning about the band. "We'll never whip these guys into shape." Told that the Beatles did their first album in a matter of a few days, River scoffs, "Yeah, and what was that? Like, 'She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.' " Then there's a momentary silence broken only by the random chirping of crickets.

"Hey, River, I was waiting for you to kiss Keanu, there was such build-up," Blake teases, alluding to a scene in last night's film.

"But I didn't, man. You happy that I didn't? Don't you feel so much more comfortable being around me now, 'cause I'm a macho stud, right?"

"No. You're still a wuss, Riv. Good shot of you guys pullin' up to town on the bike, though."

"Cool, huh, Blake? Was I studly enough for you?"

What has stayed with me from the film are time-lapse shots of clouds--"It's like putting a York Peppermint Patty on your heart, isn't it:" River remarked last night. But more indelible than that was the utterly broken, busted-up spirit of River's character, which, he said, was inspired by "heavily researching" Werner Herzog's Stroszek.

"We shot a lot of that stuff early in the morning. So I wouldn't wake up until the last minute, and I wouldn't be fully awake until like five takes into the shot. There was one point, man, it was Seattle in the cold, I actually was feeling anxious to not be this person."

Just as River is saying this, Blake suddenly leaps backwards. In the middle of our circle, coiled in the grass, is a black swamp snake. We all scatter, except River, who does a little capriole/powwow around the terrified snake: "Spiderman, Spiderman--no one knows who you are!"

In the car as we head out later, River is hanging out of the back window, guiding me out of the yard. He doesn't want us to run over the snake.

"Straight back--straight back--all the way, straight back. STRAIGHT BACK!"

"You've got it."

"Sure, you frogicidal maniac!" River hollers, possibly serious.

***

The Velvet Underground's banana album whines in a place called The Hardback, while the bass player in the house band, The Moles, tunes his guitar. River is calculating my time, concluding I've got plenty to spare before my flight departs. A studious-looking guy sitting in the corner table near us keeps eyeing River, who is taking one last wade through his stream of consciousness.

"I feel like quail."

"Is that on the menu?"

"No, no--Quayle. The veep. I love Quayle," River whispers, "and I love Bush. I love bush, literally."

"If you're feeling insecure about being in a movie about gays, forget it."

"First of all, the picture's not really about gays," says River. "Second of all, I don't like, have any real hang-ups." Despite three days of snakes, frogs, and canaries, and despite the Len-non conspiracy theory, I believe him.

We're eating ice cream sandwiches and deciding who should be on the world's biggest pricks list. Somebody mentions Joel Schumacher.

"The Grinch," River proclaims, "is the biggest prick. I can't help it. I love Dr. Seuss."

"You know, he did an adult book once," I tell River, who is fascinated.

"For late bloomers?"

"He also did a film," a student from a table in the comer chimes in. "Great guy, great film. I think it was called The Eighty-Eight Magic Fingers of Dr. Twilliger. 'Course, I was tripping my balls off, first time I saw it." The kid pauses, eyes River. "Hey, I've seen you around, somewhere. Do you know Brigitte?"

"Know of her," River grins. "I don't know her. Maybe I better."

"That can't be it, then." The young man thinks for a moment, then it hits him, like a flash of Florida lightning.

"I know, I met you through the bass player in...what was the name of his group?"

"Aleka's Attic."

"That's it," the young man agrees, "Aleka's Attic. How you doin'?"

"Haven't changed a bit," River answers peacefully, then assures me, one last time, that I have eternity before my plane leaves. Happiness takes hold of his face.

"Hey, if you miss it, it was meant to be, right?"

______________

Michael Angeli wrote our August cover story on Michael J. Fox.

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