Go, Russ, Go!

by Cintra Wilson

Middle of bloody nowhere, Australia. The wind-torn pub has fallen into a hush. The room’s largest woman (in a room full of bi-i-i-ig women) and the room’s only man are locked in a sweaty battle across the table, hands gripped, forearms bulging, eyes locked in a hard mutual psych-out.

“This is why I only arm-wrestle lesbians, mate,” Russell Crowe growls to me. “Out of respect.”

He slams down the woman’s pale arm onto the wooden table with a resounding smack; she falls heavily out of her chair, dazed. The star bounces out of his chair, victorious.

“The men burst into tears and cry like children when I beat them, whereas Trina here is a true stoic. A gladiator. Heart of a fuckin’ lion. Get up, Treen.”

Trina, an overweight woman of 40 with her hair shaved into a bowl cut, rubs her wrist in evident pain.

“Hey! No sadness, ay, butch? I was stronger tonight, that’s all.” Crowe slaps her on the back of the head in a rough, playful manner.

Trina glares at his back as Crowe leaves the scene, smiling the smirky, masculine half-smile that has captivated — nay, enslaved — me since I was first allowed to park my rental car half a mile behind the cow pasture of his outback farm-compound.

Russell Crowe, star of the upcoming pugilist epic Cinderella Man, is back in the media spotlight, outshining the limelight glare with the incandescent brilliance that has become his trademark. Encyclopedia Australica. Poet/seeker. Singer/songwriter. Thinker/brawler. Lover/father. Knower/seer. Do-er/be-er. Man.

One capital M seems insufficient, as does the a. MMMM-Ahh-nn.

Those who have not had the privilege of basking in this profoundly masculine presence may find that their image of the star has fallen prey to the negative “movie star” hype that the media has made Crowe’s albatross. His notorious “testiness” when forced to suffer fool directors (“You know, testy shares a Latin root with testes,” he reminds me). Terrible rumors that I refuse to believe: alleged binge-beatings. A “marriage” to a bottle-blonde slag Australian pop star and subsequent toddler.

I scowl at Danielle, a.k.a. Mrs. Crowe, and their child over breakfast, trying to behave as if I always wear a transparent chiffon peignoir on cold farmhouse mornings.

“I am one-16th Maori,” says Rusty, holding court. “A savage, cannibalistic people, hence my intensity. What some might call primitive I call primal. A fearless engagement with the earth. You’ll have to pitch in with farm chores, like everyone else,” he informs me. I change into a more sensible suit and mules.

I learn to clean manure from the tread of Russell’s boots with a chopstick. I polish the hubcaps of his truck with my travel toothbrush. I sharpen the barbed-wire spokes on his cow fence with my nail file.

Supervising my work, Crowe offers me personal advice on a variety of topics — my hair color, my workouts. When I ask why he is wearing a codpiece, he laments the casting of Shakespeare in Love.

“Fiennes, Fiennes! I’m not saying he bleeds once a month, but he made a choice to portray the Great Bard as a downy, pashmina fifi bag, in fuckin’ lip liner and velveteen pedal-pushers. Bill-o, ye wordy fuck! I could have played thee like a mandolin with tits, sweet Bill. Gaaah!”

Crowe beats the barn wall with his fist, visibly upset. Purple-faced, he runs back to the house.

Later, Russell and I drive his truck into town to the Senior Lady Rotarians’ Thrift and Notions Shoppe. He has promised Danielle he’ll offer his assistance toward their upcoming benefit for the local Bide-A-Wee.

Russell enters the store greeting the four old ladies behind the counter with a raised finger: Say nothing. Yet. Something is wrong. He stomps through the aisles of the small, cluttered room, jabbing at the humble inventory — owls stitched inexpertly on burlap, Kleenex-box cozies. Veins rise in his neck; a cloud of fury settles beneath the low ceiling. The old women tense. Russell explodes in a hail of passionate spittle:

“What’s all this fuckin’...yarn everywhere? It is beginning to dawn on me.... Why does this store fail to thrive? It sells yarn. And old, used shit. If you don’t fuckin’ have any pride in your work, why don’t you just piss gasoline all over this geriatric firetrap and light the pyre already?”

The ladies shrink back, trembling. One begins to cry.

“Hey! It’s not me you’ve disappointed. The real crime is how you’ve sold yourselves short, not to mention the abandoned domestic animals of the Bide-A-Wee!”

Russell stares at the fluorescent lights, as though he’s beseeching an uncaring God for understanding.

“Okay, okay. Let’s have a huddle. Come on! You too, Geneva,” he says, beckoning with his big hand toward the weeping septuagenarian fumbling with a wooden crucifix. They step warily out from behind the counter.

He gathers the old women warmly in his paws, crunching all their frail white heads affectionately together with his.

“You’re all coming to the farm next week, and we’re throwing you into the mix with the South Sydney Rabbitohs for a charity game we’re all playing on my cow pasture!” he tells them triumphantly. “How d’ya like that, eh? Dry your tears. All is well.”

Russell stares at the fluorescent lights, as though he’s beseeching an uncaring God for understanding.

Russell is beaming with pride on the drive back. He tells of next week’s altruistic venture: a Benefit for the Glorious Aboriginal on his farm, featuring a balls-to-the-wall rugby match with various pros from the sport, together with civilians like the Senior Lady Rotarians, kicked off by a “massively loud” performance by his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts.

Back at the farm, Russell takes a meeting in his kitchen with a representative from the Aboriginal Art and Culture Centre, a very dark-skinned man dressed in a clean cotton sweater and slacks, who is very grateful for Russell’s contributions to the Aborigine cause.

“Least I could do, mate. You were here first, right?”

The man shrugs.

“Wait here a sec. I want to give you something.”

Russell disappears into the back of the house, emerging several minutes later with a tangled knot of bolo ties. He finally extracts one, with some effort. His eyes become solemn and ceremonial.

“This was very important to me once,” he tells the dark man, walking over to loop the bolo around the Aborigine’s head, where it hangs briefly on his ears before falling with a thud against his chest.

There is a moment of silence.

“Thank you,” says the man, staring at the shapeless lump of turquoise on a leather thong.

Goodbyes are said. The Aborigine gets on his bicycle and rides away from the compound, looking back to give a friendly wave.

A tear glints in Rusty’s hard eye.

“Did you see that? There was a connection. That was core human contact. The fire of shared experience. Unforgettable.”

He shouts at the man’s back as he pedals away, up the dirt road. “Hey, mate! You shouldn’t really wear that thing, unless you have the right suit for it! If you’re going to go rockabilly, you need to go all the way!”

(Unlike this article, Cinderella Man, which opens on June 3, is based on real-life events.)

Photo: NYDN