“Welcome!” John Goodman bellowed from his front porch, in Charleston, South Carolina. He pointed to a patch of flowers, swarming with butterflies and spiked with a “Dr. Annie Andrews for U.S. Senate” yard sign. “See the monarchs?” he said. “Been there for weeks.” It was an eighty-degree October day, and the sky was big and blue. Inside, Goodman introduced me to his wife, Anna Beth, who had set out cake and iced tea, and their golden retriever, Birdie. The couple relocated not long ago from New Orleans, where they’d lived for three decades, near Anna Beth’s family; Goodman was shooting “The Righteous Gemstones” in Charleston, and he fell in love with the place. (Their Pacific Palisades home burned down in last year’s wildfires.) “I just felt very comfortable here,” Goodman told me as we sat at the dining table, after he showed me their marshland view.
For Goodman, who is seventy-four, finding peace and quiet hasn’t been easy. He got sober in 2007, but he still beats himself up over his decades of alcohol abuse. Toward the end, he was drinking on the job, he said, “when it started bringing out my natural depressiveness. Sometimes I’d do it to prevent the shakes. It was shameful. Something I promised myself I’d never do.” Even now, he is quick to deflect compliments; name a movie he’s been in (there are ninety or so), and he’ll either credit the script for whatever he did right or wish that he could redo whatever he did wrong. Midway through our talk, he scolded himself for not being more relaxed and had to take a vape break.
This was not what I expected from one of our most beloved character actors. Onscreen, Goodman has a boisterousness that lights up whatever role he’s playing, whether a working-class dad, a one-eyed Bible salesman, Babe Ruth, the King of England, or Fred Flintstone. His latest part is the oafish, ailing President of the United States, in Alejandro González Iñárritu’s dystopian satire, “Digger,” starring Tom Cruise as a rootin’-tootin’ oilman who lays waste to Planet Earth. The film opened this month, to sharply polarized reviews, and is on track to lose some two hundred and fifty million dollars—one of the biggest flops in Hollywood history—though it has its defenders, including The New Yorker’s Justin Chang. Goodman and I spoke about working with Cruise, his tumultuous years on “Roseanne,” his collaboration with the Coen brothers, and his lifelong quest to feel at ease in his own skin. Our conversation has been edited and condensed.
What’s your life like here in Charleston?
It’s quiet. If I can get into a routine, it’s almost ideal, because I have a great trainer down the road, and plenty of beautiful weather to walk in.
What’s your exercise routine?
Basically, building up the core, balance, strength training, stuff like that, so I don’t fall down—which I did as soon as I got back to London from Christmas break. I was walking on set in my stocking feet, which was very stupid, and I was moving around Tom and my feet slid on the floor. I came down parallel to the ground, on my hip, and fractured it.
That’s so scary. Tom Cruise does his own stunts, so he was probably prepared.
His physician was on set, and I went to Cleveland Clinic London. So I had it operated on the next day, and I was functional within a month.
What is it like to be in a movie with Tom Cruise?
You’ve got your own cheering section. He’s a sparkplug. He’s very encouraging to everyone around him. I look at him like he’s a sixty-four-year-old professional athlete, which in a sense he is. Incredibly fit. A mind like a steel trap. He was fun to work with, because I get tired easily, and he doesn’t.
You play the President in “Digger.” I would say he’s not un-Trumpian, but he’s not particularly Trumpy. I sensed a bit of Lyndon B. Johnson. I’m curious if you thought of particular Presidents as reference points.
No, I did not. I guess, everything that’s from my seventy-four years that I know about Presidents, I just kind of used all of it.
Well, your President is kind of a decrepit idiot.
Pretty much.
He’s more focussed on his own—
Mortality.
Yes, mortality. I was debating whether or not I could give away his particular ailment, which is kind of a punch line in the movie. But no spoilers.
Plenty of time for people to go see it still! [Laughs ruefully.]
Right. This movie evokes strong responses, I’ll say that. Did you have that sense working on it?
I didn’t know they were going to kill us before we even opened. Somebody said, “Well, they’re only going to make this amount of money at the box office,” which tends to be a disincentive if you’re going to see a film. Before we had a chance for people to judge us, they judged us unfit.
“They,” meaning critics? Pundits?
Whoever forecast it. I don’t know who they are. Rotten Tomatoes kind of condemned us as well before we opened. And the people who did see it have strong opinions about it.
It’s not a movie that goes down smoothly. It’s highly stylized, with metatheatrical trappings and very intense, complicated design. The characterizations are exaggerated—I don’t want to say cartoonish, but they’re extreme, including your character. How did you find your way to that?
It was native to the style of the piece and what is eventually revealed. But I didn’t fight it. We did so many takes, so many rehearsals, and I was free to do whatever I wanted. I was throwing in the kitchen sink—and the bidet, everything. And Alejandro trimmed it down to what he wanted.
How did he explain to the actors what the tone of the film is?
We didn’t focus on the macro. We focussed on the micro. He was experimenting, as well, and nothing was set until we came up with this highly stylized form of theatre.
This is not the first time you’ve played the President of the United States. “The West Wing” fans will remember the brief reign of President Walken.
Well, the one on “The West Wing” was very efficient and rather no-nonsense, and he has some rather great dialogue, which was finally delivered about three o’clock in the morning on a late night at “The West Wing.” I had a long monologue to get out, and people were sleeping.
You’ve played a lot of great lowlifes and crooks—
Thank you!
—and also heads of state. I was a huge fan of “King Ralph” when I was nine. I just rewatched it and remembered every single scene, including you singing “Good Golly, Miss Molly.”
I haven’t seen it for so long, but Peter O’Toole left quite an impression on me.
He is incredible in that movie. For people who have not seen “King Ralph”: the entire British Royal Family is wiped out, and the next heir to the throne is a Vegas lounge singer, Ralph, who basically rules England as a nine-year-old would, which is why I think I loved it so much.
I can operate on that level.
But Peter O’Toole plays your adviser and has these wonderful speeches about the importance of the monarchy and the spirit of the country. Can you tell me more about working with him?
With me, he was charming and took on kind of a mentor-mentee deal. His use of the language is second to no one. He was largely self-educated, and he did an immense amount of research and knew how to connect that with the humanity—I’m sorry, I’m sounding like a horse’s ass. Yeah, he was a great human. Had a beautiful voice and he was funny as hell.
Did he give you any advice?
We were sitting outside Blenheim Palace, the home of the Churchills, on a cigarette break, and I was looking around for an ashtray. I noticed he was glaring at me. “What’s up?” [He puts on a plummy English accent.] “Boy, make the world your ashtray!” Stuff like that.
While we’re on the subject of Hollywood legends, can you tell me anything about working with Elizabeth Taylor, who played your mother-in-law in “The Flintstones”?
We were tying her up or something, and we sat down on the floor with her. I asked her about Richard Burton. I don’t really remember any responses, because I was sitting on the floor with Elizabeth Taylor! She was a grand sport. Gorgeous. I was in awe.
Kyle MacLachlan, who was also in that movie, gave an interview where he said that her whole dressing room was green, and full of greenery.
Yeah, that’s true. Kyle did the greatest pratfall I’d ever seen, and it pissed me off, because I couldn’t do it. He’d slip, feet over his head, and fall down into a safety pad, time after time.
Well, you do incredible physical comedy. I’m thinking about “Raising Arizona.” How did you find your way into that?
By looking at Oliver Hardy. And W. C. Fields. He would do amazing things with his body, because he was a juggler. There were little misdirects he’d do with his hands, so you couldn’t watch his feet preparing to kick something so he could juggle it. Very light on his feet.
Were you watching them as a kid?
Yeah. Fields really made an impression on me. Just genius, the physicality and the voice, and his own writing. It’s just so absurd and beautiful. And Hardy, who looked like a ballet dancer. Amazing clown.
Were there other people you were seeing onscreen and aspiring toward?
Marlon Brando, from very early on. I didn’t know why. And I pursued that for way too long.
Trying to be Brando?
No, I even knew that then. He had an amazing ability that could not be duplicated. Too many people have tried. But his exploration of the things he was doing, the way he saw them, led me to a more Stanislavski-based theory of acting. It all comes from Stan the Man.
You grew up in a suburb of St. Louis. Can you describe what your environment was like?
Happy, happy. Thanks to the G.I. Bill, we had a house in a very new suburb of St. Louis, and it seemed like most of our neighbors were vets. My dad was a vet. My next-door neighbor was a submariner. A guy down the street had severe P.T.S.D., which he eased by drinking. That was kind of sad to see.
And your father died when you were two?
It was a month before my second birthday.
So it was up to your mother to keep the household together. How did she do that?
Well, we had the house paid for. She had Social Security money coming in, and she would take in kids for babysitting. She took in laundry. Eventually got a job at a drug store as a saleslady, at a barbecue place as a waitress. She had a tough time.
Were you seeking out father figures elsewhere?
Apparently I was. The scoutmasters were all very good to me. They were trying to show me the ropes that I really never learned. I’m no good with tools. Or that’s a great excuse just to be lazy.
You were a Boy Scout? Did you pick up any kind of skills?
Smoking. How to hide it. Where to bury the cigarette butt. A pretty good slew of dirty jokes. Misconceived sexual information. And basic canoeing.
And you were interested in comedy growing up, right? Like Mad magazine?
My brother is fourteen years older than me, and he was maybe sixteen when my dad died. He had great taste in comedy, like Bob and Ray and the aforesaid Mad, which he bought the first issue of. He never really pushed it on me, but I would see the old stuff sitting around, and if I needed to understand a joke I looked it up. That’s how I got my education.
What were you like as a teen-ager?
There was an underlying fear about everything. I was too nervous to steal. I liked school as a social place, but I just didn’t do any homework. It saddens me now, but I did whatever I could get away with. Probably graduated by the skin of my teeth. Until I started learning about acting, I had no interest in education. I can’t figure that out, because I was always reading stuff.
Like what?
When I got kicked out of class and they would send me to the library, I would start reading plays. Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams. I have no idea why. It’s a mystery.
You got into college on a football scholarship, right?
No, that’s not true. I don’t know where that came from. I wouldn’t lie that much. I transferred from a junior college to Southwest Missouri State University. I met the football coach to see if I could possibly walk onto the team, but my grades at the junior college weren’t good enough to allow that. That dream vanished after I left the coach’s office. I did a one-act play that spring, my second semester, and they took an interest in me.
Is it true that you were in the drama program with Kathleen Turner?
Yeah. I played Bottom to her Titania [in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”] my sophomore year. She was magnificent. She always looked like she was a deer ready to take off. She had a great voice, too.
Continues to. You moved to New York in 1975. What was your plan?
I couldn’t get away from the fear. I knew that I had to be there, because if I didn’t I would hate myself for the rest of my life. My girlfriend came up about a month later. We stayed with a costume designer up on Ninety-second and Broadway for a little while, then had enough money to move into a friend’s apartment on Ninth Avenue and Fifty-first Street. The bathroom was in the hallway, with burnt bottle caps and some spoons. Junkies would come off the street to fix up in my bathroom, on the third floor. But I loved that place, and I miss it.
What were you doing for money?
I tried to go in and do waiter jobs, but I told them the truth when they asked me if I had any experience, and they weren’t interested. I did one night as a bouncer at a place called the Adam’s Apple, and the head bouncer was this German guy who was telling us how to rip people’s mouths open or smash their heads against the curb. I got sick the next day and never showed up there again. I got a job immediately at a dinner theatre in Ohio, so I basically lived on unemployment and savings, and on my girlfriend Sandy’s jobs. She was an actress, as well.
What started to turn things around?
Commercials, I think. It relaxed me. I started making money for the first time in my life. And I learned a lot about the camera doing those little thirty-second dramas.
What were the commercials for?
Everything you could name. I sold different sodas, different beer, toothpaste, deodorant. [Slaps his cheeks.] Aftershave—that was my first big one, for Mennen Skin Bracer. Then I got some dough, which later on kind of turned on me, because I had the money enough to start drinking.
Right. How did that start?
In 1978, my girlfriend put me on waivers, so my nights were free for the first time in five years. I started going to Broadway bars like Barrymore’s, Charlie’s, just propping myself up on a stool. Then it became a habit. I started gaining weight at an alarming rate. Started going to a place called the Café Central, and the bartender was a really magnetic, funny guy named Bruce Willis. I guess I was looking for friends, people to hang around and laugh with. And the place was full of actors. I just turned it into home—and got very used to drinking.
I read about another production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” that you did in the seventies, which was disco-themed.
Yeah. I was Oberon, and Nathan Lane was Flute. Equity Library Theatre, on Riverside. And then I was doing my commercials, and I was pretty happy. I was trying to develop my own theories about acting and all that drunken gas.
Your movie career started taking off in the mid-eighties, with “Revenge of the Nerds,” where you play the coach, and David Byrne’s film “True Stories.” How did you see yourself getting cast at first?
Ultimately, I was the fat guy who fell down a lot. I didn’t have a plan. Whatever came up, I’d try to learn as much as I could. Then I got three good movies in a row after a Broadway show, “Big River.” I left that to do the David Byrne film, then a movie in New Orleans, “The Big Easy.” Then “Raising Arizona.” And then it kind of took off, until ’87 or ’88, when I was cast on “Roseanne,” and I wanted to stop living out of a suitcase.
“Roseanne” was almost immediately a huge hit. By its second season it was No. 1 in the Nielsen ratings. How did that change your life?
The income and the fame. One was welcome, one was scary. There was a lot of thrashing about in the water, with the tabloids, around “Roseanne.” I would have cars staked out in front of my house. Just got me paranoid. It made me nervous. People stopping me, which was nice. It got a little sticky in bars, because everybody wanted to be a wise guy or have a John Goodman story that they could take home.
I revisited the early seasons of that show, and your chemistry with Roseanne is off the charts. You sense that that relationship between Roseanne and Dan is romantic and loving and sexy. How did you and she arrive at that?
When I walked out of my first audition reading with her, I knew I had the job. I just bought everything she was selling. She was the central figure in the story. She was a great wife. We got by with no money and a lot of laughs.
You mentioned “Raising Arizona,” which came out the year before “Roseanne” started. Obviously, the Coen brothers have been a major part of your film œuvre, and you’re a major part of theirs. How did your relationship with them begin?
I met them in an audition for “Raising Arizona.” I started goofing on other guys’ résumé pictures, just being a wise guy. We were just laughing for about an hour. The script was amazing, and we just got on. Then they started writing stuff with me in mind—“Barton Fink,” “The Big Lebowski,” “Inside Llewyn Davis,” and “O Brother, Where Art Thou?”
In a Coen brothers movie, the characters are ever so slightly exaggerated, but there’s a layer of irony and self-awareness to it. I’m curious, especially early on, how you figured out what that tone was.
They were just Midwestern wise guys, like me. They could write great dialogue, and the stories were incredible. They’re obviously deep film buffs. What’s not to like?
Were they pointing you to other movies as reference points?
Yeah. I would ask them what level of a take to go to in “Raising Arizona.” I said, “Would you like a Spanky take on this?” And they knew what I was talking about—a stunned look. A double Spanky? [He makes a goofy, shocked face.]
Whatever that facial expression was, it was a double Spanky.
A brilliant evocation of Spanky McFarland, from “The Little Rascals.” Yeah, we’d reference a couple of things, like Everett Sloane in “The Lady from Shanghai” was walking on sticks, which my character in “Llewyn Davis” did. So Ethan would go, “Everett Sloane it over here!” And I knew what he was talking about.
The early nineties was such a huge period for you, because you were on one of the biggest shows on TV, and you were in these big studio movies like “The Babe” and “The Flintstones,” and then you were also doing Coen brothers movies like “Barton Fink.” It’s kind of like you were Tim Allen and Robin Williams and Steve Buscemi, all at the same time. How did you sustain that?
I had energy back then. I would do two films on our summer break, and be very happy doing it. I started “Barton Fink” immediately after “King Ralph.” Man, I didn’t know how lucky I was. It just seemed like part of the deal. You wanted work? Here it is. Just thinking back, goddam, I was lucky. I don’t like thinking back a lot, but that’s a good memory.
Were you prioritizing any of those particular strands of your career?
With Joel and Ethan, it was seductive to the point where I could almost coast. I felt so comfortable with those guys, and I got what was on the page immediately. And, on “Roseanne,” we had a ball. I didn’t care to look at what was going on behind the door.
Well, there was certainly a lot of turmoil with the original “Roseanne.” She would fire writers, and she ousted the original showrunner, Matt Williams. Is that what you mean?
Yeah. That was a big risk at first, when she got rid of Matt, because he created the show. She was a great editor as well, as far as jokes go. She was very good at losing the fat in a script. That’s all I concerned myself with, trying to do my job as best as possible and stay out of office politics.
That show was revolutionary in so many ways. They talk about their family budget. His business goes under. There’s real-life stuff at stake for this family, and it doesn’t always work out.
It was certainly a different show than “Dynasty” or “Dallas.” Wealth porn was very popular back then. And a lot of guys I grew up with were in the same boat, with construction.
Do you miss Roseanne being a part of your life now?
Sure. We had a lot of fun. We laughed our asses off. I used to love trying to make her pee. I miss those days.
In the last season of the original run of “Roseanne,” the family wins the lottery, and you were not around that much.
I tried to quit the show around then.
Why’s that?
There was a lot happening. I was on my own misery tour with alcohol. I just wanted to get away from a lot of stress. I was allowed to do half the shows. Maybe I wore out my welcome, I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be there anymore.
By “misery tour,” what do you mean?
I can’t blame this on anybody, because my judgment was skewed. By then, I was drinking recreationally, and a lot of stuff went by the wayside. My personality had changed. My world view was filtered through a Budweiser bottle. I would overeat, because that was comfort. Trying to fill up whatever hole that was. Same thing for drinking. It’s been better said before by other people, but just trying to fill up that vacuum with kicks. I could just be sitting there relaxing: Boy, I want something else! I want this to get better! I want to be more relaxed! Anything! I can top this by maybe having a drink or some blow or something. Just try to fill the hole. [To himself.] Goddam. I’m sorry, I just wish I could loosen up.
Do you want to take a break?
Yeah, just for a second. I’ll just have a puff. I’m overthinking everything. [He walks to the kitchen and vapes, then sits down again and laughs weakly.] I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make things better.
It’s interesting to hear you talk about trying to fill this void, because onscreen you have this incredible buoyancy and rowdiness and charisma. Did it feel like acting brought that out of you? Was that who you actually felt you were?
I have no idea. Whatever was in the script, I’d try to live up to that and fill it with life, which you’re not going to get much of from a thirty-eight-year-old depressive alcoholic. I wasn’t depressed all the time. Guilt. Fear. A lot of everything was always there, always underlying, but I tried to have a good time.
Fear of what?
I don’t know. Censure. There were a lot of lies being peddled to sell newspapers, about “Roseanne.” And it was a fear of anybody reporting on me who wasn’t interested in the truth but in a good story. Maybe I thought too much of myself. But I never liked being judged by strangers. Once it’s on the screen, it’s all out there, but I really didn’t want my private life being out there as well.
Didn’t you also feel beloved?
I always felt that it was good manners on the part of everybody else to compliment me.
And that’s it?
I don’t know. Also, hiding a secret. Trying to keep that in line as much as I could.
The secret being—
My drinking. As much as I drank. I didn’t mind admitting that I drank, but the point where I was dependent on it was a little much. [Sighs, whispers to himself.] You can’t loosen up here! Sorry.
But, John, you must know what I’m talking about—your incredible screen charisma. In something like “The Big Lebowski,” you seem so in your element. That was right in the middle of this period you’re talking about as being so dark. You must have felt on some level that the camera loved you, that audiences were loving you, because of your talent.
I guess. I just thought it was in the script, to try to convey that. And to draw on some part of me that conveyed that. I’ll never be able to explain it. There’s been a lot of therapy. I’m happy now. I just wish I was better spoken and I could relax more. [Nervous laugh.]
Can you tell me about when this turning point happened, when you started paying more attention to your health, your drinking?
There’s a saying in the rooms: I got sick and tired of being sick and tired. The thing about instant gratification is you don’t really care what’s going to happen right after it—which always led to bigger hangovers or me getting the shakes, and having to drink to get rid of the shakes, and that vicious cycle. I was in a position, when I quit, where I had to be hospitalized one way or the other. I just was tired of it, and I wanted to stop. I was delaying my maturation by drinking, and I had a lot of catching up to do, just realizing how selfish it made me. I was overlooking real life. And it was great to see there was a life where I didn’t have to use anything to enjoy it.
This was 2007. You were in your mid-fifties?
Yeah, I was fifty-five years old when I got sober. I was really immature, and I just sustained that immaturity. I wanted to live in “Animal House” the whole time.
When I think about so many of your movies, you are playing a big kid. What is King Ralph or even Babe Ruth if not an overgrown kid?
That’s exactly who Babe was. He could relate better to kids. He was a guy who lived for kicks, and he just happened to be extremely talented at what he did. But he just ate life. His father didn’t know what to do with him, so he put him in an institution for boys, in Baltimore. And King Ralph was totally out of his element, but he was trying to Americanize the British situation so he could enjoy things.
So do you feel like that’s who you were in real life, an overgrown kid?
A big kid, yeah. I always felt that.
When you started tackling this in your fifties, did part of you worry that you were going to lose that onscreen persona of the big, happy guy, the overgrown kid?
If I did, it was a secondary thought, because I was saving my life at that point. Whatever it took to stay sober, which came very easily.
Did your weight loss start around that time? Was that part of the same thing?
I’d been doing that before I quit. I’d lose sixty pounds in a summer, gain it all back. Seventy pounds, eighty pounds. And that got tiring. I took steps so I wouldn’t have to do that anymore. I was almost four hundred pounds. I was eating alcoholically after I stopped drinking.
So how did you get a handle on it?
I had an operation on my stomach. But I also turned anemic and lost a layer of fat under my skin, and I’m cold all the time. [He rubs his forearm.]
Given all this personal struggle, you are incredibly prolific. I think you’ve done ninety movies, and you’ve never really been off television, whether it’s “Roseanne,” “The Conners,” or “The Righteous Gemstones.” Plus you have a whole animation career, with the “Monsters, Inc.” movies. You must be an incredibly hard worker.
Acting has always been very good to me. I do work too hard at it. I like to do my research, but I keep pushing myself. I’m going to try to shove back whatever that need is, so I can relax more when I’m on camera or I’m onstage. Whatever I’m doing is unnecessarily hard work, to the point where I get too hung up on lines, because I overwork them, and I naturally forget them because I’m working at it too hard. I’d like to dial back. The best stuff happens when I’m relaxed.
Do you watch yourself in things? Some actors hate watching themselves.
First time I saw “Digger,” I hated myself. I hated the performance. And the second time, I was, like, That’s pretty good! I think it was the style that threw me off. It’s such a glum interview. I’m so sorry.
What would make you happy to talk about?
I don’t know, movies?
What is your favorite movie?
“On the Waterfront,” “The Godfather.”
So, Marlon Brando movies.
Yeah, but everybody in “The Godfather.” The way it was shot, the way it was written. Just beautiful. Acting—I love that. I’m still learning. I need to take it easier on myself. I hope I can keep doing it for a while. I want to return to the stage someday.
In anything in particular?
I’d like to play Old Man Tyrone in “Long Day’s Journey into Night.” Somebody will hand it to me, in my lap, and I’ll turn it down.
We’re putting it out into the universe. Somebody produce “Long Day’s Journey into Night” for John Goodman! Maybe disco-themed, like that “Midsummer Night’s Dream”?
Disco version!
Long day’s journey . . .
Into the next morning! Into doing it all over again. ♦