Men's Journal

Here then is your Renegade Oracle, legendary refractor of Infinite Male Possibility, who has forever done as he wishes, done that which other men wished to merely dream. He has seen more than you will likely ever see, as enhanced and cooled through lenses tinted, famously, certainly. 

By Bill Zehme

He covets his mystery, his slippery persona, which he has always kept meticulously hidden right there in plain sight. “Don’t understand me too quickly,” he likes to say, never mind that he loves to be understood. You do know him — of course you know him! — this John Joseph Nicholson, 70 years extant (ageless, eternal nevertheless), the Most Formidable Movie Star of His Generation and Beyond, exemplar among all rogue charmers still living life on the loose. He floats ephemeral through trend and time and space. As his director friend Mike Nichols once put forth in terms celestial and nationalistic: “You ask any kid and he’ll tell you Jack is the hippest place in the universe, the coolest place, the Independent Republic of Jack.”

And so you go there, to that place and realm, if you can, because something valuable will always come of it, somehow. You arrive one pink afternoon at one pink Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow — impersonal locus matters less than the personal locutions — where he has just finished presenting his face for the pictures you see here, and where he now slumps into plush upholstery, raffish in khakis and a black silk shirt that collects stray ash from Camel Lights waved throughout hours of helpful oratory. Oracle Jack, quite reassuringly, bears a dead-on resemblance to Seducer Jack: How gallantly he leaps to his feet whenever a female stylist or wardrobe expert wafts into his midst! (“You understand me completely,” he purrs to one, casually referring to shirt colors.) “It’s tough to be blindingly introspective,” he demurs at one point, deep into the exercise. “I wish I was half as rational as I sound.” Still in all, as you will see, Jack does know jack, and then some.

MJ: How should a man choose the perfect pair of shades?

JN: I don’t do the choosing. People give them to me. Why wouldn’t they? The ones that look good on me I keep. Mainly, I don’t like anything riding too high above the eyebrow, anything too large. Makes me look like a weirdo. You know, Morgan [Freeman] reminded me of our first meeting, at a New York Film Critics awards thing longer ago than I can remember. And he apparently asked me why I wore the shades, and I simply told him, “Because you’ll be blinded.” People don’t realize the sheer wattage of the con­stant camera flash. He gets it now. Minor hazard of the trade.

What should a man get straight before his number comes up?

I don’t have much philosophy other than Live in the Now. And that’s very difficult to do. Because, first of all, when you’re doing it, you’re unaware of it. It’s the things you don’t do in life, as opposed to the things you do do, that create lingering regrets. Don’t leave something that you really want to do undone. Another one of my mottoes — you learn things from your girlfriends, you know — is this: Don’t waste hate on anything you don’t love. This particular lady once told me, “I never fight with anybody I don’t love.” And you can’t, anyway.

How should a man deal with any lingering regrets?

There’s no point in overburdening yourself with guilt. The key is to get in the habit of kind of redirecting it. Learn from the regret. Some regrets you can’t recover. I don’t have many of those, but a lot of that’s based on good fortune. I don’t know if you earn good fortune, but I think I’ve been pretty healthy about exploiting it when I had it, not kicking myself in the ass over it. I don’t feel guilty because I’m fortunate. That’s a waste.

My ethics are the same as my number one motto: More good times! Because it’ll solve even a coal miner’s strike, if you stop and think about it. It’s a superficial thing to say, but pleasure denial is a huge part of the world. And it’s not anybody’s fault. It’s the nature of the beast. I’ve been harping about it for years. The minute they put herpes on the cover of Time magazine, social life died in America. I’m a World War II baby, and no matter what that postwar public discourse was, life got freer day by day by day. But once death from fucking became part of the social structure, we moved to the right. Young actors ask me all the time, “What was it like when it was fun?” All I say is, “Well…it was fun.”

How does a man nurture vices in a vice-free world?

I smoke. It’s not so much I mind anything about that, other than the prospect of being in a mortal hospital bed, knowing I might die of stupidity. It’s so much a habit of “cut” on a movie set for me, a tension reliever. I love that you can’t smoke in restaurants and such. Because that allows me — say, if we just finish the salad course — my normal break, and I’m up and outside smoking in that air. Let them chat inside. I’m up and out. I immediately turned it to my advantage. 

What should a man understand about himself?

There’s one You-Can’t-Handle-the-Truth anecdote I tell about Bruno Bettelheim, who survived the Nazi death camps. Be­cause he wanted to survive, he made a very quick observation. As with most people on a working crew, the Nazis held out a par­ticular ax for people whom they considered lazy. So he saw this and, in his singular sur­vival mode, volunteered for all work. He believed that’s why he survived. This is not the tough part of the story; that’s just a tough judgment on behalf of a tough guy. As a result, he wound up working around the ovens, and this is the part that chilled me to the bone: He said, “I cleaned those ashes out of the ovens, and no matter what people may tell you, the fact of the matter is, they were always stacked the same way. They were always stacked with children on the bottom, women in the middle, and men on top.” Now this is a tough truth, but it’s a truth: The men climbed on and over them to live. It’s scary. I can’t conceive it. But this is a fact. No matter what you may think about yourself, you’re this.

How should a man best face his fears?

Fear is the elixir of my work. I don’t have to fear things that I might fear in life, or I can fear things that wouldn’t ordinarily give me pause. It’s a great job, when you know that about it. But the real fear I have to overcome, actually, is the fear of the unknown. We’re very uncom­fortable with the unknown, and that’s why we tend to cling to the status quo, to structure, to relationships — to just cling. You start off today and every day by trying to overcome fear with clarity. If you have clarity, it’ll give you a position of power, the ability to act on your best instincts. I once put it this way in a comedy film: Where there’s clarity, there is no choice. Where there’s choice, there’s misery.

You know, I’m phobically frightened of public speaking in a way that I find very unattractive. I get my household in a dither before such occasions. I call in everybody for their two cents. It’s like the last speech I did: 80 people for an AFI anniversary screening of Cuckoo’s Nest, no press coverage, and I’m there because they like it. Minimal pressure. But I’m still worried. Speechwriting 101 — start with a joke, right? I have no joke. Well, here’s when I relaxed: Because I wear two different kinds of shades, I thought something mildly amusing could be done. Onstage, I first slowly took off my dark distance glasses, and then with a subtle flourish put on the even darker reading glasses. And that was the opening joke. From there, it was easy.

What’s the best way for a man to celebrate?

[Here Nicholson’s countenance contorts toward the leeringly lascivious, and it is no small thrill to behold.] Well, you know, I’m kind of a carnal beast, so let’s put the obvious things aside. That realm, of course, does make for lovely festivity, no question. Otherwise, I’m just not good at ritual anything, including celebration. To be celebrated is uncomfortable, for men in particular. Because you don’t have the choice of not being celebrated. I was maybe three years old in a novelty recording booth and they’re telling me, so proudly, “Go ahead, Jackie, sing ‘Here Comes Santa Claus!’ ” And I hear my tiny voice on the acetate — acetate is like gold back then — with the protest: “I don’t want to.” [Laughs] “But Jackie, you sang it so good.” But I’ve always remembered the sound of this little guy — “I don’t want to.” “Jackie, for Christ’s sake! Sing!”

How should a man behave in the presence of his heroes?

Here’s my thing: I don’t know that I want to be on intimate terms with people that I really admire. I like admiring them from a distance. I first realized this when I didn’t want to meet Krishnamurti when I used to go hear his talks in the ’60s, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to meet any­body either. I’ve only spoken to Phil Jack­son a couple times. Never once talked to Joe Torre, but Lorne Michaels of Saturday Night Live, who I sit with at Yankee games, was my go-between. I’ve never once been in the Lakers’ locker room, either. I could own pieces of all the teams I like. I know how much money I make. But I need en­tertainment; I do not need money.

Should a man cheat at golf?

Well, I do and I don’t cheat at golf. When I’ve said I cheat, it’s a defense, because you can’t be competitive at my age. Guys out on the course, all they want to do is bet like maniacs. First of all, you cannot play for enough money that would mean fuck-all to me. I’m here for my own entertainment. Why should I ruin it with some pecker­wood who wants to get all involved in wa­gering shots? The surest way out of it is: “Hey, I cheat.” Golf, to me, is Zen archery. You have to be able to relax and only focus on the repeatable swing. You try to compete with your­self in a Zen sense. Of course, I’m not a very Zen guy. I’ve laid in sand traps and cried, and hurled clubs into lakes.

How should a man best control his anger?

You have a choice. Go ahead and be angry once, but if it has a certain unpleasant result and you keep doing it, that’s your fault, not anybody else’s. Remember, too, I had my unfortunate business involving a 2-iron and a windshield, which I’m not meant to ever talk about because of the legalities of it. I still don’t know what that was all about, and of course I’ll never do it again. I do know that suddenly a guy’s next to me in his car trying to run me off the road. I was over in the valley on Moorpark on the way out to the golf course. I should have left him alone, instead of, Oh, you want to do this? I had him in oncoming traffic until, I’m sure, he stained his shorts. But if I had left it there I would have been fine. I expected the golf club to shatter the first time. Graphite shatters. I’ve watched them try to break windshields on movie sets forever; you can’t do it. So when I took that swing, I was kind of stunned that the head of the club went — kthoom — right through the glass. I selected the 2-iron because I don’t use it. So I was both insane and not insane and imme­diately regretted it anyway. But on the other gent’s behalf, after years and years, he wrote me a letter of apology, which speaks well for him. On the other hand, he didn’t give me the money back. [Laughs]

When is it acceptable for a man to lie?

Dodgy one. When I was a dissembling, unfaithful male in a relation­ship, I felt if I was going to do this, it was my obligation to not be caught, if I was going to take this license, this breach. And, of course, that’s all so wrong. If you think it’s right to lie, you’ve got to deal with the hard work of careful ass-covering, so pretty much the best thing is to tell the truth. If it’s a legal situation, don’t do it until you talk to your lawyer. There’s nothing in lying as far as I’m concerned. It’s al­ways a manifestation of being frightened of something.

How should a man admit when he’s wrong?

Delightedly, I hope. I want my mind and opinions to be changed. But I have to know I’m wrong as clearly as when I think I’m right. I start most conversations with, “Look, I may be wrong about this…” For years I carried in my wallet this clipping from the Newark Star-Ledger that my mother gave me as a kid. It was the Comic Dictionary defini­tion of a smart aleck: “A smart aleck is the person who doesn’t know that it’s what he learns after he knows it all that counts.” You know, the Star-Ledger has more to do with my upbringing than the Bible. I carried that forever as a caution­ary reminder, because I had to learn how to talk less forcefully, not hurl everything I had at somebody and feel like I had to win every argument. The truth is, I’m against nobody. My newest motto is: Everything in addition to; nothing against. It applies more to sexuality. But, see, I don’t listen to myself; I just like to talk. I’m fairly bright, but I take every­thing I say with a grain of salt.

What do a man’s children teach him about himself?

That we’re not fooling anybody. [Laughs] I tried to hide the fact I smoke reefer from my youngest children. But I’ve been down to the schools, and engaged with the sensitivity groups, and realized there was no point in keeping it quiet as long as we had healthy discourse on the topic — the ups, the downs, the realities of it. And they knew it all anyway. But being a parent also teaches you another difficult truth: You can be the perfect parent, getting everybody into doing the perfect things at the perfect school to make them the perfect kids. But really, you’re in the lap of the gods. You can’t really do fuck-all about what paths they choose. They have ultimate control, and it scares you. Ray’s playing football now, and you don’t want anything to happen. I’m secretly a madman about it, but have to keep myself calm in the midst of all these difficult instincts. Then I think about Bettelheim and won­der, Who are you kidding, Jack? I believe him, but I hope my bones would be at the bottom. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

How does a man know when he’s in love?

Well, I used to know because of the way it feels. It’s a distinct and divine state of being. But ensuing information has told me that one thing hasn’t changed since the chimpanzees, and that is what they call the 18-month infatuation cycle. Every human being has it — I’m talking about species-long. You know them for nine months, they’re pregnant for nine months, and then you’re looking on to the next. I don’t want it to be that simple, because I’m also a romantic. So how do I know when I’m in love? I mean, don’t you know? But life — it’ll make you suspicious of love, there’s no doubt about that.

What’s the best way for a man to demonstrate that love?

I’ll die to make a woman laugh. When you get a belly laugh out of a woman, and you’re really in tune to that, there’s nothing more satisfy­ing. Also, women are moved when you listen. Here’s a good story: I met Fidel Castro once for a long, friendly chat. At the end, he took me aside, pointed over to my girl Rebecca, the mother of my youngest children, and he said to her, “You learned much more at this meeting than Jack or I did, because all we did was talk. You listened.” I looked at him and thought, You slick Latin bastard. You had to wait until the end to put that shit out there. And, God, she was incapable of not falling apart on the spot, like a swoon. But I like the way this man summed up the meeting. You don’t learn much when you’re talking.

When should a man consider marriage?

I have no theory on this. That’s my theory. I never had one, even when I got married in 1962. Sandra Knight Nicholson wanted to get mar­ried. Fine, we got married. In reality, you have to ask what’s your obligation to your­self in making that decision. Try to at least understand what in the name of conscience it is you’re doing in entering marriage, simple as that — something I obviously did not fulfill. You can bet that divine design did not rely on the psychology of the hu­man being to marry, procreate, and con­tinue the species. Therefore, it’s the glands — very much a part of the human that’s been in there forever, and for a purpose. We know the woman’s actual cycle of in­fatuation is nine months; this is not psy­chological but in her genetic makeup. And your corresponding cycle, or sexual cycle, whatever you want to call it, is 20 minutes? An hour? We have more in common with a male dog than we do with a woman in this depart­ment. This is very natural, you understand? This may be male chau­vinism in a certain social context, but, baby, it’s also science.

What is the code between men who have shared the same woman?

Certain automatic things transcend code. Sam Spiegel, the old-time producer, once told me, “It’s all right if a woman has been with a friend of yours. You’re still right there. Same goes if she’s been with maybe even two. But once you learn about that third friend who’s been in there, it isn’t up to you anymore. You’re not attracted to her after that.”

What’s the best way for a man to get over a broken heart?

Well, after about the one-thousandth time I got hit, I did 10 years on this topic, wrestling with it. I give myself mantras sometimes, and the mantra for this was: There is no away. It’s a false concept, the escape: “I’m going to go to New York. I’m going to leave and go away from the pain.” This does not take anybody out of the world. We know this in many other areas of loss. Why do we think this game of geographic relocation could work here? I arrived at this on a personal level, because I always thought I could do without it, partnerships, in any situation. “Hey, you’re not that happy with this scenario — okay, I’ve done the best I could. Let’s see what happens. I’ll just…go away.” So it was more an admonition of myself, because you get comfortable with the ways you successfully solve problems, and sometimes that’s not the best thing.

Look, as you go on in life, you’ll see that almost all of the criticism that staggered you most came from the women you loved. But maybe you shouldn’t have taken all of that criticism so much to heart. Yet I wouldn’t say never compromise in future endeavors, either. You know, almost unanimously among my friends, they would say, “Jack’s a pretty reasonable dude, but don’t ask him about love and relationships!” You can’t believe how dumb my friends think I am in this area — I mean, ay yi yi — but I’m really just searching for truth. It’s only if you don’t ex­amine it and allow it to nourish your perceptions that you’re cooked. My secretary’s kind of a Yiddish mama, and I love her definition of a relationship: “If it’s not half the effort and twice the fun, it’s not good.”

How should a man handle getting old?

When I turned 70, it was the first time since 50 that I felt young for my age, literally. Sidney Poitier told me years ago — because I was moan­ing — “Jack, don’t worry about it. The wildest thing happens when you hit 70. You get this tremendous burst of energy for some reason.” So for, like, 15 years, it’d been the only positive thing I heard about that milestone, and maybe it worked.

How should a man best embrace happiness?

We do overthink the concept. Happiness, of course, is circumstantial, but it’s also a grace and a skill. My friend Elmer Valen­tine used to say, “Jack, a lot of people scored, and they don’t know it. We scored, and we know it.” See, it’s a combination of this su­perstition: If you say you’re happy, the gods will take it away. So in that minefield, hap­piness comes down to good fortune. Look, I have a lot of late eureka experiences these days. I’m driving along on Mulholland on a particular day, the kind about which my friend Harry Gittes says, “The Lord’s playing L.A. today.” And I’m look­ing at this beautiful day, thinking, I cannot imagine anything any better than this, period. People say, “Paradise, you’re living in it.” But it had never sunk in in that eureka way that not only made me happy, but my tits got hard and my hair stood on end. I thought, Goddammit, you’ve experienced something here. But one second later I thought, Hey, what about Iraq? That’s what I mean by the skill of happiness. It didn’t pro­tect me from Iraq. I wasn’t able to jump right back into that euphoria. The increment had happened. So it’s a grace to be able to modulate that. That’s the best thing I have to say about happy.

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This article originally appeared in the January 2008 issue of Men’s Journal

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