On the Way with Joaquin

The house in the Hollywood Hills was built in the '30s, has a dumbwaiter, and came furnished. Joaquin shares the place with his younger sister, Summer. He wanders into his kitchen to find us some water. Back at the dining room table, he sits down. Joaquin returns to the subject of his brother.

"It's tragic," he says, "because part of me wants to open up. I mean, there are some things that I'd love to clear up. But at the same time, the more that I state publicly that can be taken, used and distorted, the more I add to my family's grief and my own grief."

A toughness surfaces from within Joaquin for the first time as he speaks about his brother, something that suggests he might actually be able to take care of himself. "I've heard stuff about how the night River died he was out partying and all that--it's so untrue," he says. "That night we were together. He was just playing guitar. He wanted to show me a new song. And... I wanted to go out to see Flea play, because I'd never seen him play before. River wanted to go home, just hang out, play guitar. I was the one who wanted to go out and he was just making sure to take care of me. But some guy who claims he was best friends with River comes out--I don't know who the fuck he is, neither does anyone else--claiming all this bullshit. That's why I've been reluctant to share anything."

Joaquin stops to hug Summer, who's returned from a shopping trip. Now Joaquin's mother enters, kids with him and hugs him with affection, then checks him out at arm's length. This is a family that doesn't need holidays to get within reaching distance.

"Did I look up to River? Absolutely. Did I respect his work? Absolutely. Did his acting influence mine? Perhaps, subconsciously, but I never studied his work. Riv and I would talk about getting old, being in our 50s together, how it'd probably take that long for us to get to work together. We talked about ideas, screenplays, and we always wanted to codirect a movie. But we rarely talked about acting, to tell you the truth. Later. We'd get to do a film together later, he said. I mean, it sounded peculiar, but I accepted that. I never asked, Why don't we do it now? It just made sense. There was just something gorgeous about us being old together. The most incredible thing about River was this--he made everyone that knew him feel like he or she had the most special relationship. He was capable of having these really close, intense relationships with so many people, which was a rarity. Most people have it in them to have a few. Anyway, look. You know how people always say, after someone dies, 'His acting, or music, or whatever will be missed?' There's more to it than that. River will be missed--period. I mean, now, more than ever I wish I could talk to him."

We are back cruising in the Le Mans, Joaquin burning lots of gas and really happy again, as if the whole life-death equation had been momentarily reversed and the emptiness part were already over.

"When there's nothing to do, I go kooky. But like now, it's awesome. Got some movies coming up that are challenging and I love the pressure of making movies. Hate rehearsing. Can't rehearse. But when you roll that fucking camera, there's something about it, it's magic. I'm gone and I can't be held accountable. I'm a maniac for work. [When I'm working] everything works. I can do the 'Hi, how are you? Great. If you're happy, I'm happy.'"

Joaquin lets me out in the parking lot of Guitar Center. Waving good-bye, he tries unsuccessfully to get rubber as he pulls out into the impatient traffic. "I've accomplished what I've set out to accomplish," he's just said to me. "I do some crazy things sometimes, but I've been pretty good." I watch his yellow wheels disappear down the boulevard. It's a car culture we live in, and, for better or worse, you get to go your own way.

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Michael Angeli is a contributing editor for Details.

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