My Own Private Idaho x 1991

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Every now and then, the stars align and I find time to watch a movie—a story, an expression of the director’s mind—where my own mind becomes the backdrop to these flickering images as they make imprints on our subconscious. Not only is that fascinating to think about, but reflecting on them and observing how they can literally change the lens through which we view the world and alter our own realities… is astounding.

I believe I experienced one of those films recently, and I’d love to talk about it: Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho.

I always find it interesting when others speak on how they arrive at certain films, so I’ll share my path. A favorite pastime of mine is scouring the internet for film recommendations. Letterboxd is a huge reference point for me; I don’t know how effective adding movies to my “Watchlist” actually is considering I have a million titles on there that I fail to ever look at, but it’s there.

One of the best serendipities of producing our Cinema Slime podcast is our monthly format: every month we randomly select a movie category, and then four movies within it. Somehow… some way… we landed on Kathryn Bigelow’s 1991 banger, Point Break. That ended up being one of my absolute favorite movies we’ve ever watched and discussed together on the show.

I’m still sort of windblown by that movie—in particular, the Keanu Reeves of it all. It showed a side of him I hadn’t seen before, and I instantly became intrigued by his broader body of work. My first exposure to him as a twelve-year-old was The Matrix, so you can imagine the contrast. My mom used to watch Much Ado About Nothing, and I’d walked past the DVD cover of A Walk in the Clouds at Blockbuster Video a thousand times. I never clocked that he was the main star of Speed, though I remember seeing it on TV. I also recently watched him in Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula… and there is certainly a lot going on in that one.

As an adult, I’d like to be a little more conscious of the art form—comprehending the visual language more and analyzing the images on screen. This led me into an unofficial deep dive into Reeves’ filmography.

I read something online about great, underrated performances, and someone mentioned a scene in My Own Private Idaho, praising how brilliant River Phoenix was in it. Immediately, I jumped onto our local library’s website, and there it was: a gorgeous Criterion Collection copy on Blu-ray. I put it on hold and picked it up as soon as it was ready.

The kids were at their cousin’s house, my wife was closing up the ski shop she helps run (shoutout to Ski Chalet in Gresham, Oregon!), and we had just gotten back from camping. I was fully taking advantage of the quiet alone time.

Since I was mostly unfamiliar with Gus Van Sant’s body of work, I’ll share the little I knew going in. I have faint memories of Good Will Hunting, though I haven’t watched it since Robin Williams left us. I went to school with the son of the writer for Finding Forrester, and I always wondered if he ever got to meet Sean Connery. I once saw the beginning of Van Sant’s 1996 Psycho remake, but I was so perplexed by Vince Vaughn that I turned it off. I also carry a strong feeling of discomfort whenever I think about his film Elephant—its visual depiction of school shootings hit too close to home when I was in high school, and it didn’t make going to class feel very safe back then. I’ll never watch it again, but in that respect, it proves how immensely powerful Van Sant’s filmmaking can be.

Going into films blind is one of my absolute favorite ways to experience cinema. Not knowing what to expect—perhaps knowing who made it and the talent involved, but remaining completely in the dark regarding story or style—allows you to just hold on for the ride. It makes the discovery feel deeply personal, like a secret of your own, and adds so much to the excitement.

I’m learning now that when a blind watch works out, and you suddenly recognize real-world locations on screen, it adds a whole new layer of fun. As an Oregon resident who moved here around age three, seeing home portrayed in film isn’t something we in the Pacific Northwest get to experience every day. Added bonus points right there.

Right from the jump, we see a dictionary definition of the word “narcolepsy,” followed immediately by our protagonist: an intriguing young man named Mike Waters, played by River Phoenix. He stands on the side of a narrow, long, straight highway, wearing what looks like a bowling shirt with the name “Bob” on it, along with a snug beanie sitting crooked on his head as he looks in both directions. He is a man in the middle of life, with choices to be made and seemingly no destination in mind. He peers through the slits of his fingers to drown out the harsh sunshine, framing the end of the road where two distant trees sit on either side—creating the surreal image of a fucked-up face smiling back at him, the trees acting as eyes and the road as a mouth, almost saying, “Have a nice day.”

Then he starts to look ill. His eyes roll back, and he collapses onto his backpack in the middle of the street, shivering. Narcolepsy.

Peppered throughout this opening is breathtaking cinematography. It features gorgeous framing—cinema in its purest, most proper form—and I could stare at it endlessly. I’m easy to please when it comes to open scenery and glowing sunsets, but Van Sant gives you that and so much more.

Add to that the rich local history of Portland scenery, and I was all in. There are great rooftop shots, motorcycles humming down 2nd Avenue, and even a glimpse of the original location of Mary’s Club—a legendary strip club that used to share a hallway and bathroom with an incredible, long-gone Mexican restaurant called El Grillo. I still dream about their chile relleno burritos to this day. When you asked to use the restroom, they’d point to a sketchy back door that led straight into the connecting building: Mary’s! All of a sudden, you were in the underbelly of horny, dodgy-looking dudes and semi-topless dancers. Waiting in that bathroom line, you couldn’t help but glance around; it was dark, dank, and perverted, but unforgettable.

They also filmed key scenes around St. Mary’s Cemetery. You can track the exact street signs and pinpoint where the cameras were placed. It was a trip to travel back to 1991 Portland—coincidentally, the exact year I moved here.

As the story unfolds, we see Mike passed out in a chair with his shirt off. The camera pans down as cash is tossed onto his chest, his jeans unzipped, while a mysterious figure lurks in the background and shuts the door. Mike wakes up, collects his thoughts, pulls his pants on, and sits beside the closed door, begging the client inside for a few more dollars. We see a hairy, homely man explaining why he won’t give him any more money, though he eventually relents.

As a straight man watching Mike do sex work, you start to feel a subtle discomfort—not out of judgment, but out of basic human empathy for the sheer desperation required to live that way. Van Sant, a Portland native himself, takes us deep into the underbelly of his city. We are brought directly into Mike’s world, hanging out with his circle of street hustlers and male sex workers.

There is an absolutely heartbreaking scene inside a diner where I could tell right away that the people on screen weren’t traditional actors. As confirmed later in the Criterion Blu-ray special features, these were real young male sex workers sharing unscripted, personal accounts of their worst experiences on the job. One story in particular is disturbing, graphic, and the stuff of genuine nightmares. You can see it right in their eyes and hear it in the cadence of their voices: this reality was very real for them.

Eventually, we follow Mike to more jobs, where he runs into other hustlers at the house of an older female client who is desperately clinging to her youth. Sitting on a couch nearby are two other young men—enter Scott, played by the endlessly fascinating Keanu Reeves. Scott explains they’re only there to get the client “warmed up” before Mike is led into the bedroom alone. Once inside, Mike dawdles, observing the room, the bed, and the bookshelves, holding a massive conch shell to his ear to listen to the ocean—transporting himself momentarily. The client enters, ready to get things moving, and then… narcolepsy strikes. Mike seizes, collapses to the ground, and the two guys from the couch carry him outside, unsure of what to do with him.

They bring him deeper into a world of seedy, abandoned buildings, where we meet the ringleader of their street community: “Bob” Pigeon. He’s a large, round-bellied cult leader who delivers every line with a black-leather, Shakespearean cadence, utilizing a grand vocabulary and a theatrical flair. There is far more than meets the eye with Bob. These street kids don’t act like typical Hollywood junkies; they operate under a distinct code, a shared intelligence, and an unspoken hierarchy. We soon learn that Scott is actually the son of Portland’s mayor, destined to inherit a vast fortune when his father passes. Scott uses this street world as a temporary rebellion, creating an odd, chaotic ecosystem where Mike feels seen and accepted.

By this point, I realized I had stumbled into a cornerstone of New Queer Cinema. Going into a movie blind means accepting where it takes you. Had I known the exact subgenre beforehand, I might not have sought it out simply because it isn’t my usual area of interest, but I can honestly say I am so glad I watched it.

The film offers a brutally honest depiction of a hidden world. It is a strange, wild movie, but it feels completely sincere. It captures the bizarre amusement and absurdity of that lifestyle without feeling overly sleazy, focusing on human connection rather than gratuitous sexuality. It isn’t horny; it’s raw and inherently sexual—and there is a huge difference.

I caught strong whiffs of Midnight Cowboy in its tender portrayal of marginalized wanderers, as well as touches of A Clockwork Orange in the theatrical street gangs and looming threats of violence. I’m almost certain those were intentional nods by Van Sant, especially during a stylized showdown shot beneath the St. Johns Bridge—coincidentally, the exact spot where my wife and I had our engagement photos taken!

Layered over all of this is a loose adaptation of Shakespeare’s Henry IV, which explains the theatrical dialogue. Keanu Reeves leans heavily into this stylized delivery, offering a fascinating precursor to his role in Kenneth Branagh’s Much Ado About Nothing two years later. Reeves brings a wooden yet oddly captivating charm that balances River’s raw intensity. They are two actors from entirely different cloths, but they balance each other beautifully.

The acting throughout feels wildly creative and spontaneous. There’s a wonderful student-film energy to it—not amateur by any means, but brimming with freedom, artistic bravery, and zero studio interference. It feels like Van Sant’s final product is exactly what he envisioned: stunning, challenging, salacious, and bold. In one brilliant sequence, the covers of vintage adult magazines literally come to life to deliver exposition and world-building. In another, River and Keanu perform their own stunt, puttering into an abandoned building on a motorcycle before hopping off to jump straight into heavy dialogue.

As the narrative progresses, they cross paths with a bizarre character played by the legendary Udo Kier. He knows these young men are hustlers and desperately tries to hire them, but they repeatedly reject his over-the-top advances.

Meanwhile, we learn more about Mike’s internal drive. He suffers from recurring visions of his mother holding him as a child back in Idaho, and he yearns to find her. This is set just before the internet age—a time of quiet unknowing and physical legwork. The movie shifts into a classic road trip structure, giving off strong Paris, Texas vibes as they travel from Portland to Seattle, and eventually out to the open roads of Idaho.

They track down a hotel where Mike’s mother used to work, only to discover through an old manager that her last known address was in Rome, Italy. Broke and stranded, they sit in a hotel lobby wondering how to cross the Atlantic when they recognize a man checking in at the front desk: the pushy Udo Kier character. He is starstruck to see them, and as they part ways, he whispers his room number.

What follows is one of the most uncomfortable yet brilliant scenes in recent memory. It is pure cinema—a lived-through experience filtered through the psyche of its characters. We learn Kier’s character used to be in the theater, and once services are agreed upon, he breaks into a bizarre song-and-dance routine. In a display of peacocking eccentricity, he grabs a heavy desk lamp—still plugged into the wall—and begins juggling the awkward piece of furniture with total, unbothered confidence. It’s funny to the audience, but Mike and Scott know they’ve entered a uniquely surreal situation.

Van Sant then cuts to their encounter using static, living photography: still frames of the actors posed in frozen motion. There is skin, vulnerability, and extreme intimacy, yet by using still compositions without real motion or explicit nudity, it renders the scene artistic, shocking, and visually stunning. Money earned.

Then comes the scene that gave me the spark to write all of this down. After their motorcycle breaks down in the middle of nowhere, Mike and Scott sit beside a campfire in the desert as the conversation turns to love. It becomes the moment for Mike—a shy, narcoleptic soul searching for a missing piece to heal his internal misery—to confess his deep feelings for Scott. Scott listens calmly, but explains his pragmatic philosophy: you can’t fall in love with someone who pays you for sex, because the transaction changes the dynamic. Mike quietly disagrees. River Phoenix’s performance here is nothing short of extraordinary—arguably the greatest of his career. You see the deep internal pain, the exhaustion etched into his face, and his complete physical vulnerability. He lays his entire soul bare. It’s a gut-wrenching, brilliant piece of acting.

With their newly earned money, they fly off to Italy. Against the backdrop of Roman architecture, they track down the rustic farmhouse where Mike’s mother was last reported staying. Mike searches the grounds, but a young Italian woman residing there explains that his mother left long ago.

While the search for his mother ends in a dead end, Scott and the young Italian woman fall for each other. Following another beautifully composed still-photography love scene, Scott decides to leave his street life behind, taking his new love back to Portland to claim his family inheritance and assume his place in high society.

I won’t spoil the entire climax of the film—including the dramatic subplots involving Mike’s brother—because there is still so much to discover on your own.

There are stereotypes about Portland’s homeless population that have persisted from the 1970s through the 90s to today. It’s an unfortunate reality, and you hate admitting how easy it is to become numb to it.

I’ll never forget the first time I mentally accepted that this was something I needed to address directly with my eldest son. He was about five years old at the time, and we were driving around the corner of Burnside and 2nd Avenue—just out of frame from where Keanu and River filmed their scenes. A man on the sidewalk was screaming, clearly suffering from a severe mental crisis, and began hitting and licking the glass windows of our car. From the driver’s seat, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw my son’s face reflecting in the glass, looking at the man in the background. It was time to have the conversation.

Parenting is hard. I explained to him that we don’t know people’s individual stories, how difficult their lives have been, or what traumas they might carry from the past. It isn’t an easy topic, but it’s a part of life, and it’s essential to approach all people with empathy.

I don’t always practice what I preach. I’ve fought mental battles over whether to give money to people on the street; sometimes I feel good about it, and other times I feel taken advantage of. There’s no easy answer. But seeing River Phoenix’s performance—playing a character who ends up heartbroken, cold, and alone on the very Portland sidewalks I’ve walked and skateboarded down since my teenage years—brought everything back into focus.

We really don’t know everyone’s story. But when cinema gives us a glimpse into a story like Mike’s, it can break your heart open. Those subtle mental breakthroughs are the true power of film. Will this movie make me donate more money from here on out? Maybe, maybe not. But Gus Van Sant created a piece of art that, if only slightly, shifted my heart.

That is the true serendipity of going into a movie blind.

To all the cinema lovers out there: may you find a film that changes you, in ways big or small. I find it endlessly fascinating when movies cross my path like this, and I wish more people shared what they learned from them. Film criticism can be overplayed—let’s spend more time celebrating the movies that become a part of who we are.

This movie was a great experience for me.

Rest in Peace River Phoenix. We’re at least lucky enough to have you on film for the time you were around. Keanu Reeves before Speed is endless fascinating. I’ve never seen a new queer cinema film, and I’m happy I did and I’d recommend you watch it yourself.

Love,

Renn