You probably know who Willem Dafoe is—you’ve seen him as the Green Goblin in Spiderman, or recognized him in Platoon, The Boondock Saints, or American Psycho. But to this writer, he’s more than just an actor. He’s an artist. No, he’s an icon. Maybe it’s his deep, grainy voice. Maybe it’s the intensity of his facial features. Whatever it is, Dafoe has a lure that keeps me shelling out money to see him on the big screen, as I, in a state of fanboy hypnosis, continually ignore the title or synopsis of the film I’m about to witness. Forget the movie; it’s Willem I’m paying to see.
Every movie fan has a Willem Dafoes. (Some, like me, have several Willem Dafoes). And studios take advantage of this. Movies often count on the sway of their stars to drag audiences to theaters, especially if the film’s subject matter lacks broad appeal. Actors like Will Smith, Brad Pitt, and Johnny Depp can bait their admirers into seeing movies without a breath of hesitation. For an extreme case, look no further than Eddie Murphy. The marketing campaigns of his films rely solely on the public’s familiarity with Murphy. If the trailers for his piece-of-shit movies focused on anything else, they’d bomb! Actually, they bomb anyway, so who knows—maybe a black hole would emerge and destroy the Earth if a film starring Eddie Murphy were to pursue a marketing campaign without “Eddie Murphy” prominently stamped on billboards and trailers.
Power players aside, more perceptive movie fans may develop fondness for lesser-known actors whose on-screen presence has an inexplicably delectable appeal. I went through a phase where I’d see any movie starring Ben Kingsley after I came out of Shutter Island in awe of his, um, Ben Kingsley-ness. And then one day I found myself in the front row of Prince of Persia, thinking of the lives in Africa I could have saved with the money I had just spent on a movie I knew would suck. And it did suck. But I couldn’t help myself; I needed my Kingsley.
But Ben Kingsley is nothing compared to Willem Dafoe. I’d take a bullet for that man. Don’t believe me? Let me walk you through my experience with Antichrist, the art-house darling directed by Lars von Trier, the purveyor of all that is grotesque in contemporary cinema. I stumbled over to my local theater in Los Angeles after seeing Dafoe in a press conference for the film. The ticket said it all: Unrated. Not even the MPAA would touch this shit.
Boom. First minute, and I’ve already seen penetration. I was seventeen and owned a computer—big deal. But lo and behold, my eyes were unaccustomed to the genital mutilation that carried the last third of the movie. Nope. The Internet did not prepare me for that one.
That night I disgusted myself. Willem Dafoe was so captivating that I gave the movie a thumbs up. I’ve seen the movie three times now, for no other reason but to catch Willem Dafoe deliver a commendable performance. The lengths to which I’ll go to see my favorite actors may come across as a little excessive, and I could not agree more. I bet half the audience members at that Antichrist showing now have PTSD, myself included.
This weekend I was feeling thirsty, so I took two doses of Dafoe. I knew, before watching The Hunter, that the plotline would be dry, but the chance to see 90 minutes of the master at work had me sold. I saw it, was disappointed, but had no regrets. Next, I saw John Carter, which only features Dafoe’s voice (although, before seeing the film, I read a self-assuring piece that mentioned Dafoe’s methodical approach to motion capture). This time around, I did appreciate the movie, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover an enjoyable film. Meticulously following an actor is, after all, not without its payoffs.
For the most part, infatuation with an actor is a waiting game. The fan, always waiting for an actor to own a role, must indefinitely watch banal movies until a real gem comes out. It can be bone-crushing work maintaining loyalty for an actor through the good times and the bad. Luckily or not for me, the bad side of Willem Dafoe harbors medieval-style genital mutilation.
