There are no second acts in American lives,” F. Scott Fitzgerald once observed. But in this media-driven age, there are plenty of second acts — they just tend to be comedies more often than tragedies.
Take the case of David Duchovny. He’s a celebrity who started out as a PhD student at Yale before making a small name in soft-porn cable TV gigs, notably The Red Shoe Diaries. From there, he became a hugely successful cultural icon as Fox Mulder on The X-Files.
And try as he might, Duchovny could not completely shed that persona — the trenchcoat-wearing FBI agent with an obsession for the paranormal. Until last week, that is. Last week, he became David Duchovny, sex addict. Now he will be known as the quirky TV actor with an obsession for the parasexual. And so the American celebrity saga turns to comedy.
Things come full circle in second acts. Duchovny is currently playing a — yup — sex addict on the cable TV show Californication, and we need no longer speculate on how he conducts research for the role. The actor checked into a sex rehab clinic last week, purportedly to save his marriage. But the Sex Files jokes will probably keep coming long after this episode is over.
It’s not that Duchovny lacks talent or appeal; it’s that there was always a postmodern irony in his acting — a knowing smirk that alluded to kitsch pop culture, or less healthy proclivities. Duchovny’s smirk seemed to say, “I don’t take this paranormal crap, or even acting, seriously. It’s basically all one big cosmic joke.” His postmodern take on the acting profession hinted at the façade that is Hollywood. And so the cosmic joke comes full circle. Case closed.
Same goes for Isaac Hayes, who passed away last month leaving behind a legacy as a soul innovator and performer. His second act? The voice of Chef in South Park — poking fun at the hot-buttered innuendo of his early R&B work, singing about “sweet love” while serving lunch to the kids at South Park Elementary. Another comical second act.
The qualification for a comic second act seems to be a willingness or ability to do something so bizarre, so dumb, that the media has no choice but to look at you — one more time. Look at Mel Gibson’s racist tirade, or Michael Richards’ unfunny standup act, or David Spade’s (oops!) fathering of a Playmate’s kid.
Then there is Martha Stewart, the homemaking queen of television and print media, who was sent to the can for insider trading a few years back. A cultural institution as seemingly American as Norman Rockwell and apple pie served her second act behind bars (well, more like a spa resort), and became standup comic fodder for a few weeks. But after doing her jail stint (with time off for good behavior), Stewart simply hopped back on her career, perhaps even earning more street cred for her white-collar exploits.
Most second actors aren’t so lucky. There are plenty of tragic second acts in American life — O.J. Simpson comes to mind, or actor Robert Blake (acquitted of murdering his wife, but who wants to hire an acquitted murderer?); Anna Nicole Smith, who OD’d while courts decided on her half-billion inheritance; or Phil Spector, the record producer mogul who had so many demons they needed nametags and who carried around a pistol to recording sessions, until a woman was shot dead in his mansion. He, too, was acquitted of murder, but it’s tough to come back from that kind of press.
There are also the truncated first acts — we call them legends, for short — like James Dean, River Phoenix, and now, apparently, Heath Ledger, who had fully come into his own as an actor, only to slip away to his demons.
But with the 24/7 nature of media, there will always be room for more clowns than tragedians. Take Hugh Grant’s transformation from low-watt British actor to cinema heartthrob — apparently helped along by the magic touch of a hooker in the backseat of a Hollywood cab. Yes, it’s amazing what a B.J. and a mug shot can do for your career. Strangely, the comic aspect of his second act was publicity gold. And that’s a peculiar trick of the successful second act: acknowledging the humor of your mistake, laughing it off, and scoring points with the public.
It doesn’t always work. The string of D.W.I. (driving while intoxicated) arrests in Hollywood shows there’s little sympathy for second actors who tool around Rodeo Drive while loaded. Britney Spears experienced a premature second act that nobody could call — Was it a tragedy? Was it a comedy? — until the string of F-ups made her seem like the girl who cried paparazzi, and people decided to treat her as a joke. Same with Lindsay Lohan. But they’re both young, with ample time to eke out third acts and bad TV comebacks in the future.
For some second actors, getting arrested is the only press they’ve had in ages. But to be remembered as the guy who wandered around in a narcotic daze and woke up in a neighbor’s bed (“the Goldilocks Incident,” as it has become known in Robert Downey Jr. lore) is not exactly the legacy you want to leave behind. Fortunately for Downey — after early acclaim and an Oscar nod, and a second act that included a string of rehab visits and being fired from Ally McBeal — there is such a thing as a third act; he’s found fame (again) as a summer movie superhero in Iron Man.
Woody Allen also seems to be writing his own third act with a string of refreshed directorial efforts set in foreign locales, though his second act — marrying his adoptive daughter, Soon-Yi Previn — had the marks of both comedy and tragedy (with a messy divorce from Mia Farrow thrown into the pot).
In truth, the media loves a second act filled with pratfalls. Laughter gives off an eerie resonance in Hollywood — something deeper than the TV arrest clips andYouTube searches. In a way, Hollywood has always relished the idea of its own deflation, the pin stuck into the pomposity of red carpets and million-dollar goody bags. It’s just that the media happens to love it even more.