By Lauren Smart
By Jane R. LeBlanc
By Lauren Smart
By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
Black spent most of the '90s in a baffling amount of C-grade movies doomed to air on Cinemax in perpetuity (among them Airborne, a friggin' Rollerblade movie in which he plays baddie to Seth Green's "Fruity Two-Shoes," and Waterworld), then inched his way up to small roles in movies so big they swallowed him whole. With Stephen Frears' adaptation of Nick Hornby's novel High Fidelity, Black at last had a role that seemed to suit him less like a turtleneck sweater one size too small than a ratty T-shirt just the right size. As Barry, the ill-tempered record-store clerk with no patience for middle-aged men buying "I Just Called to Say I Love You" for their teenage daughters, Black was a rock-and-roll bully brandishing his fetishism like a flanged mace. He teased customers who didn't know their Jesus and Mary Chain from their Echo and the Bunnymen and taunted shoppers coveting rare Captain Beefheart vinyl. Beneath his bluster, Barry was nothing more than a wannabe rocker--front man of Barrytown, a secret singer of soul songs wantin' to get it on like Marvin Gaye.
It is here, then, our conversation with Jack Black begins--wondering if School of Rock doesn't feel to him like some informal sequel to High Fidelity. A word of caution: You do not interview Jack Black as much as you experience him. To ask him questions and expect rational answers is a mistake. Sometimes what you will receive instead is an invitation to engage in a staring contest, which he will win because he will take it seriously, whereas his interrogator will not know what to make of this struggle of wills and will look away in shame. "I'm one of the best stare-ers," he says, as though announcing he, too, is the god of hellfire.
Black in the flesh is precisely what he seems on the movie screen, in such films as High Fidelity, Orange County and School of Rock, and on the concert stage: sweetly sarcastic, delightfully peeved, always between blowing a gasket and blowing your mind. Black, even when sitting down and doing absolutely nothing, will forever have the look of a man about to take a hair-waving guitar solo before kicking over a stack of Marshall amps.
It is impossible to convey the energy with which Black speaks; it's like trying to describe a hurricane to someone who has spent his life roaming the desert. Italics don't do him justice, don't express the roaring ecstasy and rage and irony and glee he can muster when he plugs in and turns up.
The whole time I'm watching School of Rock, it seems to me that it's like watching Barry, that this is what Barry might have done the day after High Fidelity ended.
Barry was way more on the outside looking into rock, judging all the other people, but, yeah, at the end of School of Rock he gets in there and starts to perform. I think the difference is Barry maybe had a little more evolved taste in music. Dewey Finn, the character I play in School of Rock, is definitely learning towards the metal--the love of metal. It's a subtle difference. I know they may seem the same; they may look the same. Dewey is a little thinner than Barry.
I'm assuming that Mike White, who wrote Orange County, wrote School of Rock for you.
Yeah, he wrote something that was very Jack Black-specific. There's not many of us song-and-dance men around, especially not many heavy-metal song-and-dance men. There's only, like, two or three.
Was it important for you to find something that let you put the rock in a movie?
Mike wanted to play to my strengths, and music is definitely one of my most effective weapons in my handbag of entertainment tricks. We wrote the Tenacious D script, too. I'm planning on shooting that as my next movie, but when he showed me this one, I just couldn't pass it up, 'cause there's not many good writers, period. And I don't get calls from the Coen brothers or from the Wes Andersons or the Paul Thomas Andersons or...