Exploring Loneliness in Gus Van Sant’s My Own Private Idaho

A crossroad is a storytelling trope we’re all familiar with: Opportunity, deviation, free will; all conveyed with a single visual. Something similar can be said of a long stretch of road that spans horizons like the one River Phoenix finds himself on at the beginning and end of My Own Private Idaho. These roads may convey confinement, conformity, predestination—everything that its intersecting counterpart does not. We’re meant to celebrate life’s crossroads (difficult as they may be) as the start of something new, the very thing we hope to reach as we walk down those long stretches in life. Gus Van Sant’s third directed feature exists in this amorphous space where people spend most of their lives, in pursuit of a crossroad that never comes. It's a lonely space, one we’re all too familiar with, but the nuances of this film’s script and performances are what makes this exploration exceedingly unique.

My Own Private Idaho opens on a dictionary definition of “narcolepsy,” followed by the aforementioned scene of River Phoenix’s character Mike (don’t be fooled by the “Bob” nametag) stranded on a remote stretch of Idaho road. Confusedly waiting on a ride that hasn’t arrived, he expresses familiarity with this place: “I just know that I’ve been here before…that I’ve been stuck here.” He notices a rabbit in the brush and immediately calls out to it, insisting that they’re “stuck here together” before passing out in a narcoleptic episode. This begins a new dream of Mike being cradled by an older woman as Eddy Arnold’s popular cover song about a cowboy’s “lonesome cattle call” eases us into the opening credits. From these credits we transition to Mike’s face as he nears orgasm from a paying customer, who silently settles up and leaves Mike alone in a transactional huff. Reality is cemented in this moment, somehow more lonely than the daydreamed road we started on. This opening scene perfectly sets the stage for the rest of the film in terms of tone and theme, dreams and reality at times indistinguishable but altogether reflective of how alone this character feels.

The film explores Mike’s life as a homeless sex worker in Portland, a job many today still consider taboo and certainly one whose workers were pushed to the lower rungs of society when the film was released in 1991. Much of Mike’s day is taken up with customers, interactions with whom range from awkward dissociation to hysterical parody, but the struggle for intimacy is always present. Even one customer, who has Mike clean his kitchen while dressed as a Dutch schoolboy, earnestly begs “Vow that you’ll always love me and be mine alone.” In these moments, you realize how much these customers are receiving in comparison to Mike. At worst, Mike is used as an object to be tossed out and at best, he is giving someone an intimacy they can’t have without him but one he does not share. Especially degrading is the fact that most of these customers are rich or eccentric men, often married to women, who clearly have a guttural view of their sexual tastes and are fine to leave its purveyors hidden under society’s boot.

Under said boot is a merry band of other vagrants with whom Mike associates, and whose scenes are structured (in story and dialogue) as interpretations of Shakespeare’s Henriad. Mike’s best friend is Scott (Keanu Reeves) who, like Prince Hal in the historical play, enjoys the outsider lifestyle but plans to soon leave debauchery behind to gain his rich father’s approval. In the meantime, their patriarch is Bob, himself a stand-in for the Shakespearean character of Falstaff. Though highly-staged, these scenes of comradery between Mike’s contemporaries perfectly juxtapose those of their private discussions about their abusive work. The group as a whole provides support in a world only wanting to use them, but does it? Mike steals from Bob soon after he welcomes him back to town, Bob loathes the junkies around him for corrupting his spirit, and privileged Scott is viewed by father-figure Bob as his “only ticket out of this poverty and oppression.” The (hetero)normative world, shown in scenes with Scott’s dad (the mayor of Portland) and musically accompanied by “America the Beautiful,” has forced these characters together. Even then, their safe space is not without its own exploitation. 

But for Mike, there is always Scott. There’s a relatability between the two, despite Mike’s privilege providing him a backdoor out of this life. Scott raves to Mike about his dreams of the music industry with complete control over his work and destiny. When asked what Mike wants, he flippantly says he doesn’t care, but that he’d like to see his brother. His needs are immediate, without the luxury of 5-year plans with which Scott has been indoctrinated. Despite this, there is trust and a common ground. When camping out on their way to see Mike’s brother, the two trade their wishes for normal families and normal dads, common losses between them. But Mike’s feelings urge him to reach out for more. He shifts the conversation, “What do I mean to you?” An annoyed Scott flings back, “You're my best friend.” Mike graciously accepts this before Scott reminds “I only have sex with a guy for money” and coldly reasons that “two guys can't love each other.” Mike disagrees and admits “I love you, and you don’t pay me.” The lines are drawn and the shame is palpable. 

The confession of loving someone who doesn’t love you spliced with the only love you can experience being downplayed in its queerness. It envelopes Mike, who cradles himself and tries to exit the conversation with sleep. A guilty Scott gives in a bit and offers an embrace through the night, which Mike desperately accepts. It's not the first time Scott has held Mike, he’s done so multiple times during Mike’s narcoleptic episodes, but this is more a save-of-face than genuine care. The naturalistic performances of this scene leave the audience emotionally sunken, the pomp and circumstance of Shakespeare stripped away, allowing two men to wrangle with something equally timeless; the loneliness of masculinity. The masculinity of Scott as a straight man righteously shutting out Mike’s love (all while longing for his father’s) becomes the physical embodiment of our masculine culture at large. In turn, it crushes the pursuit of love for people like Mike who already feel so alone. When this level of repression is imposed, personally and societally, dreams of better days are often the only escape.

When Mike’s brother Dick enters the film, we’re met with a more rugged embodiment of masculinity than we’ve seen prior. He lives alone in a rural home, sporting a slightly unkempt beard and working man’s clothes. As soon as he and Mike are alone, they explode into an off-camera fight that sends Mike into one of his stupors, a quick escape from someone he really wanted to see. Following the typical brothers-at-odds setup, Scott notices something quite strange; paintings of different families all around Dick’s home. They’re ones he painted for families and kept after never receiving payment. “They keep me company,” he says with a chuckle, an attempt to reclaim the family he’s lost. Appropriately when Mike wakes, Dick wants to discuss their mother, who neither have seen in some time. Dick wants to share the truth; that their mother killed a man that she loved but who refused to marry her, that she left to avoid the police, and that this man was Mike’s father. Mike grows angry, insisting that Dick is actually his father. The conversation is dropped without certainty, the two unwilling to reconcile. 

On one side there’s Dick, presenting the truth flatly to Mike, perhaps hoping he’ll “man up” and confront it so they can be closer. Mike seems unconvinced, desperate to preserve the existing mental images of his loving mother and the only father-son relationship he has. Both are wrong in their loneliness but sympathetically so, refusing to accept the other and failing to fix the real issue at-hand. Perhaps as a concession, Dick shows Mike a recent postcard from his mother, saying she works not far away. Upon trying to visit her work, they say she left months ago to find her own family in Italy. Is this the crossroad Mike has been waiting for? A way to find the implicit, familial love that he dreams of? He sets off with Scott to find out.

When they reach the mother’s address in Rome, they’re met with a woman named Carmela (Chiara Caselli) who says that his mother had returned to the US, but does not know where. While staying together, Scott begins a relationship with her, culminating in Carmela confessing her love for him to Mike. The scene is more bitter than sweet, with Mike clearly heartbroken and at the dead-end of a long trip he knows he must make back alone. Alone, he rides the plane back to Portland and alone he returns to his life in sex work. We see him deteriorate, his epic journey somehow leaving him with less than when it started; the lack of a best friend who does not notice him sleeping on the street upon his return.

Scotty comes back to Portland due to his father’s death, upon which his inheritance also kicks in. In a three-piece suit with Carmela on his arm, Scott is seen by Bob entering a restaurant. Bob realizes Scott’s newfound wealth and attempts to collect with his goodwill. In front of his entourage of ‘90s yuppies, Scott rejects Bob, saying “although I love you more dearly than my dead father, I have to turn away.” Scott cannot live in both worlds, he has made his choice and embraced society. Scott, by all metrics of traditional American success, has “made it.” Husband to a beautiful wife, riding in fancy cars, with instant notoriety; all things he’s wanted throughout the film but things he could not have by keeping Bob’s favor. “Polite society” doesn’t allow for same sex relationships or even casual sex, even though his newfound contemporaries have the same signifiers as his paying customers of the past. American masculine culture has given him success, but immediately taken away one of his strongest relationships. Scott’s second rejection of the film ends Bob’s life just days after the death of his other father, and a dual funeral ensues; a traditional one for Scott’s father and a riotous one for Bob in the nearby woods. As the father’s priest warns of reaping corruption of the flesh, an orgy begins atop Bob’s casket. His former friends chant, either in enticement or defiance, as Scott looks on.

As previously mentioned, the final scene is similar to the first; dreamlike and back on that same stretch of Idaho road. “Been tasting roads my whole life. This road will never end,” Mike brags before falling into a narcoleptic stupor. Alone on the road, two strangers drive up only to steal his stuff and leave him once more. The final shot shows another figure approach and load Mike into their car, continuing down the road before the credits roll. Is further exploitation awaiting Mike with this unknown person? Or perhaps it's his brother picking him up where he always does. Both are likely to happen again if not at this moment, with Mike’s crossroad nowhere in sight.

Masculinity can be benign, a trait as passive as humor or curiosity. Unfortunately throughout history, both abroad and in the U.S., masculinity has been used as a hammer of conformity to separate the powerful from the “weak.” Masculinity is strength that men try to maximize, femininity is submission resigned for women, and anyone in the middle (queer men, working women, nonbinary people, etc.) simply lacks the conviction to harden themselves among the protected or protectors. It's alienating for those on the outside, but also for those who belong to the in-group. Scott is allowed to travel from one world to the other only because of his father’s power, but even that isn’t enough to hold both at once. He knows he must play the part to gain power in society which is why his rejections are so important to the film. Scott rejects Mike’s love not only because he’s straight but because he doesn’t view it as love, already indoctrinated by his privilege to think less of those who are different. Scott’s rejection of Bob is even more heartbreaking, with Scott’s acknowledgement of his love showing a true denial of his feelings for the sake of acceptance among his new acquaintances. Scott may not truly be happy in his new life but it will surely be a more privileged one than Mike’s. Empowered loneliness is enough for most people to turn their back on the lonely and powerless.

By comparison, Mike’s journey is one of repression, both internalized and societally-imposed. The only thing Mike wants is true connection; not transactional, not fetishized, not circumstantial, not exploitative. But everyone and everything in his life has denied this, so he denies himself. He denies a truthful relationship with his brother to preserve the stronger “patriarchal” relationship he’s imagined. He buries his feelings for Scott soon after confessing them to preserve a friendship that ultimately dissolves. Repression and preservation are highlights of the queer experience; easier to deny your truth and maintain the status quo than deal with the fallout of pursuing your needs. For men like Mike, this includes a preservation of your masculinity. A gruff exterior, emotional severance, stoic independence; the things you’ve been told that make you a “man.” These things give you power in a culture that rewards them, they grant you some amount of common ground with other men, and to drop it all could mean losing everything. Mike already has too little and loses so much more in his attempts at repression and preservation, all in search of love and intimacy. 

The trajectories of these two characters don’t seem fair, but are certainly familiar to those living under American capitalism. It's relatable to see that these ‘90s characters (themselves originally written in the Victorian Era) were dealing with similar struggles as us, but it’s not necessarily comforting. The privileged can still engage in depravity and use said privilege to feign reformation, becoming part of society’s shared dream. Meanwhile, the rest of us dream like Mike (figuratively and literally) to simply be loved and accepted for who we are. Both groups are truly lonely, the only way out is together, but “the other” still exists. It may not be possible to truly overcome these issues as a civilization, but until we do, we’ll all continue to identify with lonely stories like My Own Private Idaho for far longer than we need to.