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"I'd always wanted to work with Gerard," says Weir. "But I didn't know if he had any interest in doing an English-language film. I decided to revive a piece I'd been working on about a green card marriage, and I cut out this photograph of Gerard that looked more or less how I wanted the character to look, and stuck it on the wall while I was writing," Weir explains. "Of course, I hadn't even asked him to be in the film yet! But then I went to France to meet him, and we got on immediately," Weir laughs. "Gerard's what you'd call a larger-than-life character." However, the day after the Letterman show, Depardieu isn't exactly feeling larger than life - or at least not in the way that Weir means it. "I've had too much to eat and it's hot in here," complains Depardieu, stroking his belly. The actor is stashed away in a suite at New York's Surrey Hotel, where some of the staff speak French, and where he lived for five months during the making of Green Card. He's fighting the effects of a bottle of wine, a huge lunch and the strain of doing back-to-back interviews with a translator in attendance. Depardieu clomps to the window, throws it open a takes a deep breath of cold November air, then slams it shut decisively. Expansive in all aspects of life, he once ballooned up to 257 pounds. His consumption of red wine might seem excessive were he American, but is perceived merely as a sign of joie de vivre since he's French.
It's not surprising that Depardieu seems to feel compelled to make even his exhaustion appear enormous. Even the most ordinary thought turns monumental and lyric on Depardieu's dexterous tongue. For example, when asked about Peter Weir, he describes the director as "a song, a song you keep here," placing a big paw over his heart. "And here," Depardieu adds, softly touching his temple. "In stereo, mono, whatever . . . " Then he grins. A discussion about the difference between cinema and theater (Depardieu performs regularly on the Paris stage) draws on the relative hardness of the seats, the sensuality of light, the private nature of the literary experience and a comparison of the paintings of Francis Bacon and Renoir. For the purposes of illustrating a point, Depardieu can do dead-ringer imitations of Daniel Day-Lewis' performance in My Left Foot or De Niro's in GoodFellas, a movie he raves about by saying, "It makes The Godfather look like a little operetta."
Depardieu has also developed catchy narratives about two key traumas in his life, which tend to pop up in every interview he does. When he was a teenager, Depardieu lost his ability to form complex sentences for two whole years. "I could talk, yes, but it was like . . . " Depardieu opens his mouth and makes a cave bear sound, then pats his cigarettes on the table. A speech therapist eventually determined that Depardieu had an ear that literally was too sensitive, that took in too much information, and he helped him learn how to talk again.
Then there was the episode in the late Seventies when Depardieu was attacked by a German shepherd. (Which tempts one to ask, "Was the dog all right?") He says his life flashed before his eyes and he was so traumatized he went into therapy - including several sessions with the legendary French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan. "I went into his office and talked to him," says Depardieu, "but all I really wanted to do was to steal the paintings off his walls." Depardieu says he has more faith in Freud's approach to interpreting major life events, anyway, and goes on to explain why Cyrano is a classically Freudian part. "The nose is of course . . . " he trails off, chuckling as though he can't stop himself from saying what he's going to say next. "The nose is of course an analogue for . . . " he gestures to his crotch, his hands making a V -shape. "Of course. Also the thumb. They're all related," he says, helpfully gesturing to each relevant appendage. "I'm sorry, I can't help it," Depardieu grins, spreading his hands wide.
Apart from the fact that Depardieu himself possesses a rather prominent schnoz, it's easy to see why he connects so strongly to Cyrano, which he has called "the film of my 40s." There are obvious real-life parallels in this story of a man enraptured by words, outdone and made uncomfortable by his size, who claims in a quiet voice, as Cyrano does, that "my elegance is interior."
The superficially loutish Depardieu is a true self-taught man. There were no books around the house when he was growing up, Depardieu says, so he taught himself to read - that is, when he wasn't taking first-hand lessons in rough-and tumble street life. By the time he was 8, Depardieu was already hanging out on the street in his depressed hometown of Chateauroux, smoking cigarettes and learning to be a world-class liar. In fact, Weir drew on aspects of Depardieu's youth for the character of George including the scene where George tells Bronte the history of each one of his tattoos, which are actually Depardieu's own and were acquired precisely in the manner he describes in the film.
Legend has it that a teenaged Depardieu was hitchhiking one day when the driver asked him what he did with himself, and Depardieu replied that he was a theater student. He found the response so enticing that he moved to Paris and enrolled in acting classes. There he met his wife, Elisabeth, a fellow student six years his senior. The couple live with their two children in a 300-year-old house outside Paris. They spend much of their free time at their sprawling chateau in Anjou, France, where Depardieu tends his own vineyards and relaxes between acting gigs, which isn't all that often.
"Maybe I've made too many films, as some people say," Depardieu speculates. "But it's because I love the work, the adventure, not because I want to be loved. That's from a sickness, wanting to be loved." He frowns. "What's important is your creative family, not all the awards and praise." Depardieu leans forward. "I'm being completely honest right now. Really. I'm like a gypsy that follows this road. But it is not a highway. It's a little side road, and that's what I prefer."
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