1993. A clearing in the woods near Chicago, sun shining, puffy clouds. Robert Downey Jr., twenty-seven years old, just a few months past his Best Actor Academy Award nomination for Chaplin, has been high or drunk or asleep for much of the last two months while filming this wild serial-killer movie. Today he has dipped one of the front tails of his white button-down shirt in fake blood and pulled it through the unzipped fly of his suit pants, like a bloody phallus. "Oh come on—that's too much! You're going too far, Robert." Oliver Stone, the director of the movie—now on its fifty-fifth of fifty-six days of filming—has won two directing Oscars. He is hollering in his gravelly, perpetually annoyed voice across the clearing at Downey, who opens his mouth to try to explain but is cut off. "You're ruining my movie! Forget the dumb dick idea. This isn't…" Stone trails off, grumbling. "This isn't some slapstick bullshit." |
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