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Okay then, let’s try the MTV party....
It was a small gathering. Only six or seven hundred people under tents on the beach.
Suddenly there is that now familiar commotion. People getting pushed and shoved out of the way.
Well, well, well! Mickey the mouse has arrived.
Some poor, unsuspecting invited guest had the audacity to snap a photo of Mr.
Rourke. He was immediately set upon by two Goons who tried to wrestle his camera
away from him. Apparently, they must have mistaken this MTV beach party for
another MTV beach party where there wasn’t going to be any television
or press coverage. Only there wasn’t any other MTV beach party, so what
the hell were they attacking cameramen for??? As they are fighting for control
of the camera, Mickey steps forward going, “No, no, no, guys, it’s
all right, let him go.” The master’s voice and the dogs obey. The
man was released. Mickey and the Goon Squad then push their way through the
crowd to the small stage at front so Mickey can sit on the edge and watch people
dance. Four Goons surround him, one on each side, two in front, all with clenched
fists and scouls on their faces so as to try and look intimidating.
What were they trying to protect him from, someone trying to give him a job?
Maybe, because after a few minutes a shapely young starlet walked up. The Goons
check her out: nice legs, slim waist, good chest....They look at Mickey, he
nods his assent and they let her through to sit beside him.
Mickey must have thought she wanted to give him a job.
As the Mick is talking to the Babe, one of the Goons notices that off to one
side a man in a tuxedo, pen in hand, is taking notes. Like a child’s game
of ‘Telephone’, the message is transmited from goon-to-goon in a
series of turned heads and whispers in the ear. “Hey, there’s a
guy over there taking notes.” The message arrives at a fifth head which
sends a goon-to-goon reply. Goon #1 leaves his post and approaches the note
taker.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
“Taking notes,” comes the reply.
“Who are you?” he demands.
“I’m the press.”
The Goon departs, returns to his post and starts another game of Telephone.
Head #5 gets the message and goes to the reporter.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I don’t think so,” comes the reply.
“Are you with the press?”
“Yeah. Is there some problem with that?”
“No. We just wanted to make sure you weren’t a stalker.”
“You want to see my accreditation?” asks the reporter.
“No, no, that’s all right,” he replies. “What part of
the press are you with?”
“I’m a journalist with The Parisité magazine.”
“Well, I’m the publicist for Mr. Rourke and if there’s anything
I can do to help you, just call. I’m staying at the Carlton.”
“You have a card?” asks the reporter.
“No,” is the publicist’s reply, “sorry.” And he
starts to leave.
“One second,” asks the curious reporter, “but does Mr. Rourke
have any scheduled public appearances?”
“No, none per se,” he answers.
“And this isn’t a scheduled appearance, is it?”
“No.”
“Okay, thank you.”
The publicist goes back to the bunker and a new game of Telephone begins. This
time the call goes straight through to the operator. The Mickey message must
have been something to the effect of “Hey, Mickey, there’s a reporter
from The Parisité magazine over there and he’s taking notes on
what you’re doing.”
The Mick looks at the hack and begins to think. That is a rather lengthy process
for him so it gives us time to reflect a moment.
A stalker? In a tuxedo? At the MTV party? In Cannes? In France?
So the Mick is looking at the hack and suddenly stands up and says something
to the Goons. The pushing and shoving starts and the Mick is off, leaving the
Babe behind. People on the dance floor are blindsided out of the way so Mickey
can get to the door. The lead Goon shouts, “Everybody outta my way! I
don’t want nobody ta touch me!”
All of which goes to prove that just because you’re a paranoid doesn’t
mean that people aren’t watching you.
The comedy should have ended there for the evening, but it continued on into
the night. At around 3 am the regional representative for Corona beer, stocky
6 foot 10 inch tall Mike Corvarrubias was having an animated discussion with
a friend on La Croissette, the wide sidewalk which graces the beachfront in
Cannes. As he recalled, “I turned around real fast and accidently elbowed
this guy in the chest really hard. I looked at him to say `I’m sorry’
and realized it was Mickey Rourke. Then I was surrounded by these four guys
who looked at each other as if they were supposed to do something.”
“I looked down at them, because, you know,” he said motioning his
hand at the center of his rib cage, “they came up to about here on me.
They just sort of stood there so I said I’m sorry and Rourke rubbed his
chest and nodded and walked on.”
Well, heck, what are bodyguards for?
This would all be totally ridiculous if it were not for the innocent, unsuspecting
people who are being pushed, shoved and threatened by the goons. This guy is
not the President of the United States and Mickey’s group of hired thugs
have no right to assault people. Of course, these guys are protecting Mickey
Rourke, so that must make them special. However, real stars at Cannes like Clint
Eastwood, Catherine Deneuve, Bruce Willis, John Travolta, Sigourney Weaver,
Kathleen Turner, Meg Ryan, Kevin Kline, just to name a few, are totally accessable
and civilized and professional. If they had any security around them it was
usually one bodyguard provided by either the studio or the Festival itself.
Even Prince Albert of Monaco, a regular at the Festival, walks openly around
the city, albeit with two inconspicuous armed bodyguards. He went into a restaurant
without any commotion, he even went into a crowded discotheque, always civilized
and dignified.
Years ago people in the movie industry warned Rourke that behavior such as his
would ruin his career. He refused to listen. Now, with his career freefall almost
totally over and scarcely any roles being offered, he immaturely blames the
Hollywood system for his rejection. He rants and raves, spewing profanities
at everyone in the film business, decrying their morality, behavior, and motivation
in a series of four-letter words. Yet he doesn’t cause any trouble, he
professes, because he never punched anybody in the business.
Rourke’s trouble-making, however, doesn’t require him punching anyone.
He has his bodyguards for that. Instead, his trouble-making is the nightmare
for producers.
Just who is this guy?
Mickey Rourke got a lucky break when cast in the minor role of an arsonist
in the surprise 1981 hit Body Heat. Hollywood and the public has had
a penchant for the sulking, misunderstood-youth stereotyped by James Dean in
the 1950’s. Dean’s untimely death and subsequent ascent into legend
gave rise to succession of Dean-clones. The baton was first sucessfully picked
up by Marlon Brando, who went on to establish a fine career. Then in the late
1960’s it was thinly worn by largely now-forgotten Michael Parks. In the
early 80’s it got dumped onto Mickey Rourke. Rourke cherishes the image,
trying to act the “tough guy” all the time. “I always wanted
to be a big man,” he is once quoted as saying. His bad-boy image which
so suits him worked well in his youth, but now in his 50’s it’s
worng thin.
A little background research shows the following: Mickey Rourke is an Irish
Catholic from Miami, Florida. The product of a broken home, he spent his teen
years working part-time as a pool attendant at local hotels and as movie theatre
usher. His education went no farther than high school. In 1975 at the age of
19 he came to New York City where he spent roughly five years in a series of
menial jobs such as street vendor, furniture mover, parking lot attendant (fired
for consistantly damaging cars), and bouncer. He worked in massage parlors and
frequented whorehouses. In a stroke of brilliance, he took an acting class and
started to go to auditions. After about 80 rejections, he landed a part and
the rest is history, albeit a history with few great successes. His most notable
achievement was in 9 and a half Weeks, where he lived out many a man’s
fantasy of sexually pummelling Kim Basinger. His other major films, Rumblefish,
The Pope of Greenwich Village, Year of the Dragon, Barfly, White Orchid and
Angel Heart have all been critical and box-office failures. His own
production dream, the film he claimed to have always wanted to make, Homeboy,
was a disaster.
In a Playboy interview in 1987 he admitted that he was a thief, a compulsive liar, and a cronic masturbator. For his failures, of course, he blames the critics.
Some people speculate that Rourke’s personality began to twist after he
did the movie Angel Heart, with it Satanic overtones. “It’s
like a spirit got into his head when he did that film,” said California
producer Mick Kollins, speculating a bit on the supernatural.
Others think the Rourke has taken a few too many punches. Having been an amateur
boxer in his teens, he abandoned the sport out of lack of discipline. In his
late forties, at an age where even the greatest boxers have long since retired
from the sport, Rourke decided to try and recapture his youth by returning to
the ring for professional bouts. Not content with the cerebral contusions of
his youth, he wanted and got many more in the mid-1990's.
So, what’s in store for Mickey Rourke in the 21st century? The odds are
very little. Not a major box office draw, no one in the movie business is willing
to risk starring him in a film because of his infantile behavior both on and
off the set. The chances of him growing up at this late stage are not even being
covered by the London bookmakers. He will most likely be offered an ever-declining
number of small parts until he finally fades into obscurity, surrounded by his
Goon Squad who are protecting him from himself.
He’ll probably end up back in the parking lot denting cars.
The moral of this story?
Don’t believe your own advertising!