Mads was recently asked to be on Dr. Phil because one of his kids wanted to confront him or something. It was a free trip to LA, and he asked me if I wanted to go too. Why not, right?
While he was taping the show, I decided to take a trip to Rodeo to grab some clothes. I saw Nicolas Cage exiting a store by himself, putting on his sunglasses as the sun hit him. There were a couple of paparazzi who noticed, but that was it. I ran over.
"Hey, Man," I said. "How you been?"
"Oh my God, I almost didn't recognize you. What're you doing in LA? Walk with me to my car."
"I'm here because Mads is on Dr. Phil for one of his kids."
"That Mads, what a kidder."
We reached his car, a Lamborghini that once belonged to the Shah of Iran, and there was a pause. I wanted to ask him, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject. I could tell he was getting impatient, so I blurted it out:
"Why don't you make good movies anymore?"
"What?"
"I've been meaning to call you about this. I know it's kind of harsh to bring--"
"No, I mean why would you ask? Isn't it obvious?"
"Obvious? Why you make movies so bad that you can't even screen them for critics anymore because you know what they'll say? I don't see what's obvious about that."
"I did Leaving Las Vegas, The Rock wasn't bad either. People know I can act if I want to. The plan now is to just take the dumbest script possible for the biggest film possible and cash my 8-figure paycheck. Call it a Kinski approach, only instead of doing as many small bad roles as possible, I do a few big ones for a bigger pay off."
I dropped my head.
"I'm sorry I doubted you, old friend."
"Don't worry about it. Wanna grab a drink?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
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