Review: ‘I’m Still Here’ Doc About Joaquin Phoenix’s Lost Years Is An Entertaining, If Potentially Dubious, Hot Mess

“Love me or hate me, just don’t misunderstand me,” our protagonist pleads in the opening prologue of this picture.

Unless you’ve been living under a self-imposed media blackout or a cultural rock, here it is: In the months somewhere in between 2008 and 2009, actor Joaquin Phoenix announced he was quitting acting for good, embarking on a hip-hop career. During the period the actor, sorry, rapper, basically gave up on hygiene, grew a massive Unabomber-like beard, gained a sizable amount of weight, and several media pundits and the public began to call into question the authenticity of his his new career choice, imagining it to be a type of post-modern art prank: see how low you can go, see just how deeply you can torpedo your career.

The “is this a joke” aspect of the entire affair was perhaps best typified on the much-watched bizarro appearance on the “Late Show With David Letterman” where the celebrity mumbled meekly throughout and the talk show host mocked Phoenix for barely being mentally present. “I’m Still Here” is a document of that lost-in-the-wilderness period directed by Phoenix’s brother-in-law Casey Affleck in his feature-length debut.
Most film reviews covering documentaries of this nature (quasi and questionable fictional narrative) tend to become obsessed with the legitimacy of what is being presented; see the sidetracked conversations that miss the point with “Exit Through The Gift Shop” and “Catfish” for recent examples.

But “I’m Still Here” is so outlandish at times it is easy to become preoccupied with its veracity. The doc vacillates from moments that seem like true anguish on the part of Phoenix, and other sequences feel like they can barely contain their devilish smirk. A more clever doc covers its tracks a little better and there is an unsettling feeling of being part of a kind of put-on in certain moments.

Whether the film is an outright hoax is still up for debate. Affleck recently admitted certain sequences in the film were “an act,” and didn’t want to speak too deeply about the film’s factualness and accuracy because he wanted viewers to retain their own “impressions,” which is a pretty big tip off to the entire affair. In the end it does feel like Phoenix has gone through some kind of crisis and in his saner moments, he and Affleck craft a narrative to what they should do (i.e. pursue Diddy to record Phoenix’s solo rap record). Another clue is in the credits that lists Affleck and Phoenix as the writers of the documentary (yes, documentaries have writers, but this credit strikes one as odd).

But apocryphal or not, “I’m Still There” is entertaining if not entirely absorbing. Hirsute, arrogant and wantonly narcissistic, Phoenix is a hot mess and the doc is a fascinating train wreck chronicle of terrible state of mind. The film opens in the fall of 2008 where a beginning-to-unravel Phoenix begins to tell his pals he’s had it with acting. Curiously enough, Affleck’s cameras are already there which does raise red flags. The actor appears in a L.A. stage play for charity with Sean Penn and Danny Devito as a hit man and then tells his soon-to-be tormented assistant (Antony Langdon, former guitarist for Space Hog). Before he can formalize his plans, the perpetually blunted out Phoenix announces his retirement as an exclusive to Extra after the red carpet for the play.

Increasingly disheveled physically and mentally fraying by the minute, Phoenix immediately regrets his public announcement, is derided by his publicists (and Affleck) and then sets off on a shaky course to start a hip-hop career. And much of the film turns into an absurdist “Waiting For Godot”-like scenario where Phoenix and his two assistants (who he constantly belittles and berates) chase Diddy around the country (New York, Miami, L.A.), hoping to hold court with the hip-hop impresario and convincing him to produce Phoenix’s debut album (Phoenix’s publicists tell him Dr. Dre is booked earlier on). Other celebrities come into play — a perplexed Mos Def at JFK hearing that Phoenix’s rap career is serious, Ben Stiller trying to convince Phoenix to take a supporting role in “Greenberg” (seems like a set-up, honestly) and Edward James Olmos dropping some wisdom science on the actor that practically brings him to tears.

The picture then alternates between Phoenix recording music (lyrically and vocally, it’s incomprehensible blather and it’s a shock someone doesn’t tell him him he can’t rhyme), the actor/rapper chasing after Diddy and meltdown after meltdown. Phoenix says he’s passionate, gets heated and can’t help it, and the castigating of his assistants (especially Langdon, who we learn suffered from a drinking problem), goes beyond regular censure into a form of painful humiliation, emotional blackmail and torture. Occasionally Phoenix puts on a show in Vegas or Miami (both of them were derided in the press which you likely read and saw in YouTube clips) and each one is a spectacular disaster unto its own.

The salacious moments of the film are somewhat overstated. Yes, Phoenix is (twice) seen snorting cocaine, calling up prostitutes and is briefly shown cavorting with naked call girls and receiving fellatio, but all in all these moments are quick, edited so nothing too pornographic is shown and relatively tame from today’s standards. The “shit terrorist” sequence as we’d like to call it, however, is pretty nasty (even though you don’t see too much). Essentially, Langdon is pushed beyond his breaking point. Constantly mistreated and verbally abused throughout the film, Phoenix’s growing paranoia makes him believe Langdon has been selling him out to the press and is the inside-camp culprit who told Entertainment Weekly the hip-hop career was all a ruse. Phoenix hires a private investigator and what’s left of their relationship implodes. So abased by his boss and told his life is worthless and has no significant “bits,” the fed up assistant tapes himself dropping a deuce on Phoenix’s face while he sleeps and a disgusting melee ensues.
And much of these shenanigans are equally funny and yet agonizing and hard to watch. As the film goes on, Phoenix seems to fall deeper into a psychologically bedraggled state. Constant pot smoking and drug intake forces Affleck to subtitle much of his incoherent mumbled thoughts and if it’s all to be believed, it’s a man spiraling down into a pitiful and spiritually empty condition.

The film makes much use of footage from “Letterman,” and Extra, even the Oscar and Spirit Awards digs at Joaquin to put the entire fiasco in a larger context, but what provokes cracks in the suspending-your-disbelief facade is the massive disconnect from reality. Either Phoenix is clueless he is a horrible MC and his friends are too spineless to tell him (Affleck included), or it’s all just a put-on. When they meet for a second time in the studio after listening to his tracks, Diddy asks him if he’s trying to insult him and hip-hop. These scenes are both highly uncomfortable and comedic gold, much like most of the choppy, cut-to-the-chase documentary which never really allows for much set up or exploration into the psyche of Phoenix.
In fact, this is the doc’s Achilles heel and prevents it from being something to truly marvel at. It’s never really explained why Phoenix has his issues, wants to quit acting (other than he feels like a pawn in a game and can’t express himself) and why on earth he’d want to start a rap career. A lot of the documentary just feels like a surface-level chronicle for our amusement and while, yes, it is funny, it therefore makes Phoenix look like a circus freak show whose mental instability has allowed himself to be totally manipulated (then again, he’s a producer on this film, take that as you will).

The elements that do ring true are at Phoenix’s lowest and therefore if real, bear a striking note of failure porn or exploitation. Certain pathetic moments of Phoenix’s maniacal, going-further-off-the-rails existence are extremely funny and others are flat out excrutiating. True empathy is reached in the actor’s moments of paranoia, anxiety, fear and eventual tearful breakdown. These moments truly defy you to laugh at the actor and perhaps this is part of the brilliance therein. In fact, some sequences are so painful if real, one has to question Affleck’s motivations. As a family member, many of these arduous scenes make the director seem incredibly ethically irresponsible for letting Phoenix hang out to dry like that (if some of those moments are real and this writer were the subject, he would have clocked the filmmaker across the chin more than once).
The genius or failure of the picture, depending on how you view it, is the uncertainty throughout, as scene to scene wavers with notes of fraudulence or genuineness. Perhaps another element of the doc’s ingenuity is how it manages to manufacture an air where you’re laughing at Phoenix, then with him and then eventually, rooting for him. No matter how you want to slice it, the final sequence in Panama when Phoenix goes to visit his father for spiritual advice is glorious. We watch the emotionally threadbare actor wade through the waters of a small river in search of, who knows what, but it hints towards a rebirth, is elegiac as all get-out and an “ecstatic truth” moment you might find in a Werner Herzog documentary.

More than likely, “I’m Still Here” is a blend of fact and fiction. Affleck doesn’t seem like the type to pull a full on media prank. A curious portrait, rough around the edges and ragged, much like its protagonist, “I’m Still Here” offers no easy answers into the mind of Joaquin Phoenix nor any true examination of what eroded his psyche or led to such a dilapidated mode, but the picture — while flawed and seemingly morally dubious — cannot be labelled as worthless or totally counterfeit. While not completely satisfying either, “I’m Still Here” is strangely watchable, sad, entertaining and a framework that will likely linger in the mind of the media (and you the viewer) for at least a few weeks afterwards. And there’s definitely something to be said for its odd resonance. [B]