Richard Crouse

“I’m Still Here,” the pseudo cinéma vérité documenting Joaquin Phoenix’s shift from actor to rap star isn’t a documentary but an elaborate piece of performance art. Directed by Casey Affleck—Phoenix’s brother-in-law—it purports to be a chronicle of a complicated artist who feels “stuck in a prison of self imposed characterization.” Along the way we see Phoenix snort cocaine, yell, mumble and chase down Sean Combs while slowly turning into a bearded, tubby Zach Galifianakis look-a-like and singing the worst hip hop since Vanilla Ice rocked the mic. Part of me wishes this wasn’t a hoax because if it really was a portrait of a man in collapse I could excuse the sloppy, self indulgent filmmaking. What could have been an exploration of fame and insecurity is instead a one joke sideshow stretched to an hour-forty-five. It feels like being the only sober person at a party full of drunk and high people. They are, of course, more entertained by the goings on than you are. I do give Affleck and Phoenix points for commitment, but commitment doesn’t make a good movie.