School of Hard Knoxville

The last time your weary correspondent was plonked down in the middle of the Jackass crew, she found herself longing for the relative civility of the gorilla house. At least monkeys don’t get hangovers. Or spend the half-hour allotted for your interview showing off their most recently downloaded porn.

Let’s just say it was not quite a daring expose. At least not of the variety I’d been hoping for.
This time, I was sure things would be different. For one thing, I’d only have Johnny Knoxville to contend with. Away from his braying brothers, I told myself, he’d make for a kinder, gentler interviewee. Besides, since last we met, he’s chalked up comic acting roles in Grand Theft Parsons, The Ringer and The Dukes Of Hazzard, so he’s surely honed his skills with the press. Hell, he might even answer a question or two.
When I’m told that Johnny is running a little late, I’m not bothered. I’m an older, wiser hackette. I can totally handle this. An hour goes by. Then the lively chap from The Mail On Sunday (whose name I’ve forgotten) comes through from Johnny’s suite looking fit for the sanatorium.
“Good luck,” he says in a tone that recalls Kirk Douglas in Paths Of Glory.
Uh-oh.
When I walk in the room to find my subject sprawled on a couch, surrounded by emptied bottles of beer (it’s three in the afternoon) I begin to suspect I won’t be asking those important questions about cyberinfrastructure after all.
He cheers momentarily to make the usual endearing noises when he hears my accent. He talks about Jackass cohort Chris Pontius and his Irish wife Clare taking him around Dublin and Donegal.
So far, so good. He’s not pontificating exactly, but he is responding. Let’s try some baseline promotional standards, shall we.
Johnny Knoxville – recently turned 35 – has been lured back for one more bow with the loveable masochists of Jackass. Maintaining the limbo-ing standards set by the original film and TV series, Jackass Number Two tenders a charge of midgets, the drinking of horse semen and old-fashioned inter-male bullying. As the ringmaster, Mr. Knoxville can be found attempting to blast off on a rocket. For all the self-inflicted hits to the nuts and snakebites incurred to date, it was the closest he has ever come to death.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I nearly died. It was fucking scary. Suddenly there was this foot-long rod at my side. The thing just exploded right beneath me.”
Hmm. I thought that’s what rockets do. So is it harder now? Does he find he can’t take punches like he used to?
“Naw,” he drawls. “I was in crappy shape then as I am now. There is no athletic skill in being chased by a bull. I mean, look at me… Uh… Can I get another beer?”
He motions to an assistant who obliges in two deft movements and efficiently disappears into the corridor. It looks like she’s had practise.
So… wasn’t the last Jackass film supposed to be the grand finale? Is this the adrenalin buzz calling?
“Yeah,” he nods. “The first film was our finale, But I was travelling across Russia with The Wildboyz and had a good time so I suggested we put the band back together.”
He admits, however, that the recent death of Steve Irwin might make him think twice in future.
“It really was upsetting for me and the guys,” he says. “It did not change my mind. I knew there were repercussions about what we do, what I do. But there is no magic circle to protect you just because there’s a camera on. It stresses my family out. It makes my wife nervous.”
You have to feel for Mrs. Melanie Knoxville. The pair met as teenagers just before his swift exit from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in Pasadena. (“I took a couple of classes,” he shrugs “And I knew it wouldn’t work out. I just figured it was the only thing I might actually be able to do.”) In 1995 they decided to elope to Las Vegas, Nevada to get hitched. When they got there, Johnny gambled away all their money and they were forced to wed in a smaller church. Remarkably, they’re still married ten years later and in 1996 they had a daughter, Madison, whose name is tattooed on left side of Johnny’s chest.
It would be a touching gesture if it were not part of a gallery that may actually be the World’s Worst Tattoos. Who gets a tattoo of Leon Spinks? Or The Germs?
“Tattoos are stupid in general,” he says “But they can be cool unless they’re a good tattoo. There is nothing stupider than a good tattoo.”
It’s hard to know what to make of Johnny Knoxville. You get the sense that he’s smarter than the other bears, that he and Jackass creators Spike Jonze and Jeff Tremaine represent the ne plus ultra of playing dumb to be clever. Despite the dodgy body art, he certainly doesn’t seem stupid. Before Jackass he worked as a pretty nifty writer between acting jobs. Today, he talks about the profound impact, when, as a teenager, he read On The Road and Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. By the time of Hunter S. Thompson’s suicide, they were friends.
“I was saddened but not surprised,” recalls Johnny. “God, yeah. I don’t know. It sucks. But that is how he lived his life.”
He never got to meet his other idol Johnny Cash, but he did acquire the Man In Black’s cabin weeks before his death. Like most things, he attributes his admiration for Cash to an upbringing in Knoxville, his hometown and the basis for his adopted surname.
“Knoxville informed everything about me,” he says. “All the boys back home are a little loopy. We’re excitable you know. So I share that.”
He swigs from the bottle.
“I consider myself a Southern gentleman.”
Others would beg to differ. Since Jackass first aired in 2000, Johnny and his motley crew of contributors have come under heavy fire from would-be moral guardians. Shortly after the show debuted, Senator and then-Democratic Vice-Presidential nominee Joseph Lieberman began a campaign to have MTV pull the show off the air. The former music channel responded by canceling all airings of Jackass before 10pm and refusing to air repeats of the later episodes, angering the cast and production crew.
“The pressure from Washington seeped its way down to us,” says Johnny. “That’s why we left the show after nine months. It was not fun anymore so we didn’t want to keep doing it. But making the two Jackass movies, MTV and Paramount completely stood back. We heard nothing from them. But Washington wasn’t so interested anymore.”
Several political analysts has argued that Lieberman’s sustained attacks on the TV show, occurring at the height of the 2000 Presidential Campaign, alienated younger members of the Democratic Party at a time when every vote counted.
“Really?” Mr. Knoxville asks. “I hadn’t heard that. Maybe.”
Well, the theory seems to hold water if we assume that regular viewers can actually vote.
“Yeah, I hear felonies keep you from voting,”he laughs, before stiffening slightly. “But I’m in a foreign country so I better not say.”
I don’t get the chance to sneakily push the point. Just as he finishes speaking, Chris ‘Party Boy’ Pontius bursts in the door.
“Alright!” cries Johnny. “Let’s make this interview FIESTA! Hey brother! This here’s one of your new countrymen.”
He gestures toward me and Chris lunges in for a patriotic hug.
“Alright,” says Mr. Pontius. “I’m getting my Irish passport in a few months. I’ll be seeing you. Hey, you keep doing your interview.”
“Hey,” shouts Johnny. “We’re talking about bad tattoos.”
“Oh yeah, man”, says Chris. “I can field this one… You see, a bad tattoo is like sleeping with a fat, ugly chick. Anyone can sleep with a beautiful girl. We’re on TV. It’s easy. But you can only brag to your friends about it if she’s huge. If she’s pretty, there’s no point.”
I see.
The boys start talking about the soles of Chris’ feet. He’s shoeless and from the looks of it, has been for some time. I try to ask about Johnny’s upcoming role in Killshot. It’s his first non-comedic performance. Does this mean Johnny Knoxville is the serious thespian trying to break out?
“You mean like buggering me?” he laughs.
Oh dear. Just sit back and enjoy the manly prattle. There’ll be no further questions today.
Party Boy dances over for another hug.
“Hey. You won’t write anything bad about us, right?”
I wouldn’t dream of it.
“Alright.”