out. His report:
“Johnny Depp often runs late. To him, a watch would be a handcuff. So I was pleased when he showed up less than an hour after the time we had arranged. He shook my hand and apologized, saying he had run his motorcycle into a pink Ford Escort.
“He led me into the quiet, dark Viper Room—black walls, mirrors, black upholstered booths. The booths are marked with brass plaques engraved with the names of preferred guests and a warning to interlopers: “Don’t Fuck With It.” The place was empty in the early afternoon. We went downstairs to Depp’s sanctum, where we sat on a couch near a closed-circuit TV that monitors the club above. We talked all day. I was impressed by his intelligence and earnestness. He was often tongue-tied, struggling to shoehorn his convoluted thoughts into sentences. Watching him grope for words, I couldn’t help rooting for him to unearth the mots justes he was trying for.
“A minor point: Depp’s Viper Room co-owner, Chuck E. Weiss, who happens to be the eponym of Rickie Lee Jones’ song ‘Chuck E’s in Love,’ has joked that Johnny is such an artistic, sensitive person that he ‘sits on the toilet and pees like a woman.’ But it’s not so. We did about a minute of this interview in their club’s men’s room, and I can assure you he’s a stand-up guy.”
Playboy: You have only one urinal. Does the Viper Room men’s room get crowded on weekends?
Depp: [ Nods ] It used to get wet. There was a guy who would somehow sneak in here with a monkey wrench. He would loosen a nut on the urinal so that when the next person flushed, water would go everywhere. It was like Niagara Falls. You had people running from the bathroom, slipping, security guys sprinting over to throw down towels. This happened fairly regularly for weeks, and I came to respect the toilet guy. I liked his method, his consistency. He clearly took pride in toilet sabotage. But then it stopped, and I kind of miss him.
Playboy: Why do you call the place the Viper Room?
Depp: After a group of musicians in the Thirties who called themselves Vipers. They were reefer heads and they helped start modern music. [ Lights a cigarette ] You know one great thing about having your own club? You get free matches.
Playboy: Do you have any plans to quit smoking?
Depp: Nah. I think if you find something you’re good at, you should stick with it. I have switched to lights, though. It got to where I would wheeze going up a flight of stairs, so I went to diet cigarettes.
Playboy: You’ve been accused of selling out—“doing the Keanu thing,” as one critic said—for making Nick of Time .
Depp: Who cares? I’m interested in story and character and doing things that haven’t been done a zillion times. When I read Nick of Time I could see the guy mowing the grass, watering his lawn, putting out the Water Wiggle in the backyard for his kid, and I liked the challenge of playing him. He’s nothing like me. And I wanted to work with John Badham because he made Saturday Night Fever and invented some interesting ways of shooting. Nick of Time is a thriller, and it gives me a chance to play a straight, normal, suit-and-tie guy.
Playboy: If you wanted big money you could have also made Mobsters , a potential hit. You’ve turned down other mainstream films for movies such as Dead Man . How much did that one pay?
Depp: Less than my expenses during the shoot. But it’s a poetic film. I did Dead Man so I could work with Jim Jarmusch. I trust Jim as a director and a friend and a genius.
Playboy: How do you see your career? Is it something you’re sculpting as you go along, a body of work?
Depp: It’s more primitive. I look at the story and the character and say, “Can I add any ingredients to make a nice soup?” In some sense there is a monofilament running through the guys I’ve played. They are outsiders. They’re people society says aren’t normal, and I think you have to stand up for people like that. But I
Sharon Bolton
Cynthia Baxter
Barbara Pym
Sarah A. Hoyt
Meg Collett
H. D. Gordon
J. C. Reed, Jackie Steele
Sandi Lynn
Annie Dillard
Roni Loren