Unsung Heroes: Vincent Gallo

Even the most prolific, ADD-afflicted multi-tasker would find it hard to challenge the CV of Vincent Gallo. From understated acting to acclaimed directing and every step in between in film-making; from creating beautiful music in both bands and solo to his international art shows, not to mention his modelling for Calvin Klein, the serial womanising and general status as celebrity hellraiser, This man has truly done it all. The resulting mountain of work is perhaps only comparable to the man’s ego.

Film is probably the best place to start. Apart from small roles in Goodfellas and a show-stealing performance in Palookaville, he’s been in no major hits and even turned down roles in Reservoir Dogs and Boogie Nights. Instead he threads through the background of Hollywood in his own minor classics. Buffalo 66, his first feature from 1998, was my first taste of his achingly heartfelt output and perfectly illustrates what he’s capable of. He plays Billy, who, following his release from prison, kidnaps a girl to pass off as his fiancée to his parents. The real beauty kicks in when film-friendly Stockholm Syndrome kicks in, and she genuinely starts to care for him. However his second feature, Brown Bunny, was widely panned at Cannes in 2001 as gratuitous, particularly regarding then-girlfriend Chloe Sovigny giving him a blow-job on film. Of course, for such a flagrant self-publicist as Gallo this was never going to be satisfactory. At the press conference for the film, he apologised for the film before bursting into tears. He even put a gypsy curse on human-manatee film reviewer Roger Ebert’s prostate. Ebert has only recently forgiven Gallo for the colon cancer that followed.

Music is another central tenet of what Gallo is. 2001’s When is so heart-wrenchingly beautiful that by the time ‘Honey Bunny’ kicks in you’ll want to hunt down your loved ones and give them a hug. Even the ubiquitous subject matter of the first track ‘I Wrote This For The Girl Paris Hilton’ takes on a woozy, familiar feel so personal that the next time you see her in Heat it’ll be like looking at a long lost friend. Unfortunately, much of his other music—like his films—is frustratingly hard to track down. I’d give good money to hear his late eighties morph into Puerto Rican hip hop star ‘Prince Vince’. Whilst the nasal boy from Brooklyn does haunting and melodic in his stride, I can’t help but imagine that this would be a step too bizarre. Of course, without the evidence, it just becomes another facet to the legend.

Being the reported control freak that he is, it’s unsurprising that Gallo is also such a stunning self-publicist. In 1997, Grand Royal magazine carried a self-penned interview by the man himself. In it Gallo has something to say about virtually everyone he’s worked with, all whilst wearing a pink leather catsuit. He described Tim Roth rather bizarrely as ‘like holding a penis upside down to make it appear erect’, whilst Buffalo 66 co-star Christina Ricci was described as ‘basically a puppet. I told her what to do, and she did it.’ Like his film or music, hate is just as much a creative tool at his disposal. It was sent to the magazine with a note that they could only use it if they printed it completely unedited.

So what marks him out as special amongst all the other egotists on choice? In amongst the stunning mediocrity that abounds in any of his fields it’s got to take a strong agenda that’s followed rigidly to be as independent-minded as he is. He’s one of those figures who all at once teeter on the brink of self-parody, self-destruction and true greatness. Indeed, much of what now has to be claimed as fact about him could well be just another Gallo-created fantasy. Was he really a New York rent boy? On top of everything else, did he really find time to be a motorcycle champion? It wouldn’t be surprising for him to have made them up. Then again, it wouldn’t be surprising if they were both true.

Any temptation to pigeonhole Vincent Gallo should have been binned long ago. I haven’t even touched on his artistic history, despite comprising of dozens of solo and group shows, which has become something of a lost history in the face of his other achievements. Between all of this, the last stereotype of artistic liberal boho should perhaps be binned on the fact alone that he is a teetotal, drug free Republican. So what are we left with? There isn’t really a contemporary comparison to make with what is effectively an indie Renaissance Man. Others may dabble in art or music, but ultimately they’re still models or actors. No other individual manages so easily to cover all fields in a blaze of spectacularly flagrant self-publicity. Even with the pink leather catsuit, long may Prince Vince rule.

A shorter version of this article was first published in Quench Magazine, 25/04/05