Michael MADSEN

Michael MADSEN

Chasing Brando
by Craig Vasiloff
"If I haven't said anything intelligent by now, I'm not likely to come up with it."
It is wet in New York City. Ugly wet. Rain pours down in a waterfall of anger. Thunder bellows and lightening cuts through the sky like a sharpened blade. Inside the nondescript SoHo loft of photographer Sioux Nesi the outside scene is replicated with assistants, stylists and caterers all hustling about in some sort of chaotic order.
Michael Madsen sits quietly and bites into a cheeseburger. He's still wearing the clothes from our photo shoot and looks casually rumpled. With his closing statement I finally understand something, something that this man's legions of fan already know. Michael Madsen is a very cool soul. Not because he is famous; not because he reminds me of Steve McQueen; not even because he hangs with people whose names include Tarantino and Penn. He is cool because in his quiet, brooding presence you can sense that he never cared whether he was thought of as cool or not, it just kinda happened along the way.
Michael and I sit off in a corner trying to find some quiet place to talk while Sioux and her legion prepare for the next round of photographs. "I'm always surprised when anybody wants to take pictures of me. I can't imagine anybody cares anymore," he states. I think he says this to calm himself down, having just admitted to me his hatred of photo shoots. "On the screen I can pretend to be another character, and I have a dialogue that's written for me … a situation to be in, but something like this, this is me."
What that traitorous camera catches is truly Michael Madsen. Every complex, unadulterated inch of the man most of us know as the dark, loner-type villain. Ask him about being typecast and he'll tell you he's a victim of his representation.
Mention his kids and you can almost see him soften, especially after his long battle with his ex-wife to settle their custody agreement. A jaded side rears up when he recounts the long court battle. "Where is it written that a mother is the sole most important thing in a growing child's life? I think that the father has just as much validity and just as much importance. It's really hard, if you're a father, it's hard to get the balance," and it's a valid point. His kids are his world, a grounding point to remind him that the universe revolves around other forces than the big screen.
Does he drink? Hell yeah, Michael and Jack are old friends. Did he dabble with drugs? Of course. He was just smart enough to not get hooked - and brilliant enough to always keep an eye on the overall plan. "The more control I have over my own destiny is always better, which is, basically, the big trick."
With a script he wrote himself, Thunderbird Park, going into production with his friend and producer, Billy Bob Thornton on board, a book of poetry, Burning in Paradise out and a CD to his credit, it seems Mr. Typecast is breaking his own mold. He's a man of many talents, and a man of many interests. A fan of such greats as Hank Williams, Humphrey Bogart, Robert Mitchum and Jimmy Stewart and a lover of war flicks and creature features, he's a lot to take in at once.

One thing is for sure; he's never lost himself in all the glitz. "You gotta draw the line between what is real and what isn't, you know?" and it's obvious that he's got a firm grip on his own reality. It's a reality that includes four sons, a reality that keeps coming back to his stream of conscious style poetry, a reality that is an "ongoing process." He's more than Mr. Blonde, but even if that's all you remember him as, that's okay too. Because he really won't be offended one way or the other. You see, it's his life… and it's not about you, it's about him.
The poems on the following pages are from the as yet unpublished, Quack Quack by Michael Madsen. Look for him soon in two new Quentin Tarantino features, Kill Bill with Uma Thurman and next year in a Dirty Dozen remake, Glorious Bastards that will begin filming in France later this fall.
It's funny when you write on paper because each word is born like a little baby. It grows up just like a kid, depending on whom reads it. You can't help but think of all the people that put pen to paper. All the words that came out with blood and sweat and pain and joy and love and hate and weary wonderful silence. I just burned some hairs off my arm with a cigarette. Yeah, think about it. I wonder what Earnest was thinking when he loaded the gun.
A poet that I like once wrote something like "It's the little things in life that will drive a man into the madhouse." Well, I agree. A paint chip, a crooked picture frame, your kid's skid-marked underwear left in the hall, snails eating the plants, rust, being trapped in a place where a song you hate is playing, hang-ups on the answering machine and people who talk too loud, the wrapper on a straw and the garbage bag that breaks. Flowers that die and the sound of your ex-wife's voice. Old letters and overcooked meat, watered down ketchup and soft apples and of course, the grocery cart with the bad wheel. The wrong blanket, the wrong pillow, the wrong channel. That fucking wick in the candle, dead batteries and bad charcoal, flat tires and traffic. Disc Jockeys who want to be Howard Stern and more stories about Monica Lewinsky. Enough, enough, enough.
I saw this show on the History channel one day. Things always seem interesting when they become History. Anyway, it was about a Fox Hunt. This old-time actor who is history now, Dan Dailey, had on a little cap and some tight-fitting get-up for riding a horse. He smoked a cigarette while being interviewed about the Fox Hunt. I'd call it a chase or a fuck-up or a one sided slaughter that only the hounds seem to understand. He went on and on, in his deep voice, about the thrill of riding fast, blowing some insane horn, trying to find a Red Fox. Man, he loved it. There were a lot of other guys too, wearing the same little outfits that would look better on women. No one was interviewing them, because the only opinion worth hearing was that of an actor. People always think actor's opinions are worth something. Except, maybe that Fox.
Breathing hard, slathering and foaming and hardly ever stopping to piss. I think there was even music on the soundtrack because everyone really felt damn good about this noble sport, the sport of Kings, the sport of Princes or, maybe that's Polo.
In the beginning, before everyone is mounted up and adjusted, someone gets the dogs together and there is a "Blessing of the Hounds." I'm not sure why; for luck, I assume or maybe relief from some strange anxiety. A priest does it. Whatever the reason, it goes back generations. The thing of it is, I just don't get it.
I really can't make any sense out of the whole fucking thing. All my life my heart has sought after a thing I cannot name. If I knew what it was, maybe I'd chase it with dogs, dressed like a woman.