The Man Show

Details Magazine - By Oliver Jones ©June-July 2002

Whether he's breaking up a marriage or biting a bouncer, Crowe is the latest in a long line of Hollywood rogues. "I don't think I'm
misunderstood," he says, "but I definitely think I'm misconstrued."

The Hollywood male used to be a dangerous rogue. Today, in a world of well-behaved actors, all we have left is Russell Crowe. A few months ago, breathy overseas gossip had it that Russell Crowe was on the verge of marrying Danielle Spencer, a pixie-ish Enya wannabe he'd been dating intermittently since 1991. The rumors seemed plausible: Like stories about global warming, everything you read about Crowe is both factual and nowhere near as scary as what's true.

The American entertainment-news magazines (which tend to be neither) spun their leads in typical "Sorry, ladies, looks like ol' Russ is off the market" fashion, but in truth, the blow would be more keenly felt by men. For nearly a decade, Crowe has been Hollywood's bellwether rogue and preeminent swordsman-the guy who reminds us that stardom is not, in fact, an elected office. With Johnny Depp content to fit the Navigator with baby seats, and Brad Pitt soon to join him, Crowe is all but alone in his dogged pursuit of the leading man's loftiest goal: sleeping with beautiful women, regardless of their availability, and beating up people on a semi-regular basis. (Sure, there's George Clooney, but his bar-closing days are clearly behind him; he doesn't even bother getting in a tiff unless it gets him on Fox News.) Since arriving on these shores in 1994 at the behest of Sharon Stone-"He's the sexiest guy working in movies," she said back then, when she was working in movies-Crowe has manifested a superhuman ability to charm the opposite sex (despite an incipient Oliver Hardy gut and a gift for unflattering haircuts). Moreover, he seems happy to use his powers for good and evil, whether that means reading poetry to Courtney Love or helping along the disintegration of Meg Ryan's marriage.

Nor has Crowe's roguishness been confined to the bedroom: When he isn't inspiring co-stars to rethink their vows, he's rearranging someone's dental work, or a (allegedly) biting a chunk out of an Australian bouncer's neck. While the targets of his rage represent a democratic cross section-harried television producers, sycophantic actors-his victims are invariably reporters. For an unsuspecting stringer, a Russell Crowe junket can turn into and exercise in terror, some twisted hybrid of the Spanish Inquisition and a Donald Rumsfeld press conference. Of course, Crowe is simply the latest in a grand Hollywood tradition. The original rogue thespian, the one against whom all others must be judged, was John Barrymore. If Barrymore found a certain 18-year-old particularly comely, first he deflowered her, then he consulted her mother. The tradition of the star as a kid in a sex candy store was further advanced by a pre-knighted Richard Burton, and later, a pre-Tahiti Marlon Brando; it was perfected by Warren Beatty circa SHAMPOO. For these men, the conquests weren't so much victims as initiates into a stardusted club of forbidden lust-and their celebrity shone all the
brighter for it. Meg Ryan's fling with Crowe gave her something she couldn't buy before she met him: an edge. We are all made a little better by the presence of such scalawags. In an age when movie stars, like cutlery salesmen, are judged solely on their ability to generate revenue, the Crowes of the world show us that something far more significant can be achieved through Best Actor status: a greater truth, a higher plateau, the blonde three booths over. Movie stars don't just act; they act on the impulses the
rest of us only dream of indulging. The highlight of this year's Oscar-cast?

When the camera cut from a triumphant Denzel Washington to a seething Crowe. It was a more genuine emotional display than any of Halle Berry's histrionics. In this simple moment, we could divine the secret of the Hollywood scoundrel: Beneath that philandering veneer beats the heart of an excessively honest man - a living, breathing, Victoria Bitter-drinking id. "I don't think I'm misunderstood," Crowe told a cowering press corps this past December. "But I definitely think I'm misconstrued. I think it is very
easy to offend people with the truth for some reason." Speaking of the truth, those rumors that Crowe had proposed to Danielle Spencer turned out to be false, or at least premature. Apparently, when they went shopping at Cartier in Rome this past Valentine's Day, he bought her a $28,000 diamond encrusted watch, not a ring. But Crowe just turned 38, and according to the British press, he's recently taken to pining for children. It's just a matter of time before he hangs his spurs and trades in his roguishness for suburban pastures. And when Crowe goes, there may be no one left to replace him. The Hollywood scoundrel is an endangered animal. He does not function well in the 24-hour news cycle, where his every impulse is scrutinized and judged, where E! channel pundits treat each row as if it required the ministrations of Kofi Annan. The press, which perhaps benefits from his appetites the most, is shepherding him toward extinction. If Crowe does tie the knot, who waits in the wings? Jason Patric? (Too pretty.) Aaron Eckhart? (Too Mormon.) Jack Black? (Too Chris Farley.) We can only hope that someday soon, another unshaven mess will saunter in to stave off the obsolescence of Satyrdom, and when that day comes, we will all line up to bask in his vapors.

 (Thanks to Darcy for providing this article)