This is a fairly interesting work over at Esquire. Lisa Taddeo has written a recreation of actor Heath Ledger’s last days. As a work of fiction it works well. As a testament to the actor it feels icky. It feels like something of a disrespect for his life, but it also works on a level of social critique at all of us who were sweating over the moronic details of his last few days.
Taddeo manages to just straight kill this and make us all feel ikcy for every wondering what happened leading up to Ledger’s death.
It becomes theatrically important, after you die, what your last few days are like.
For me, it was just like any other weekend in my life. I didn’t eat a last meal, I didn’t jerk off any more or any less, I didn’t climb a mountain or end up swinging from a noose with Mozart’s Requiem in the background. But suddenly it’s important exactly what I did, because they are the last few days, and what you do in the last few days, down to your last lunch, becomes a fairy tale.
If you force me to make my last weekend a microcosm of my existence, and what my existence means to you, then I’ll tell you how it went and who I played. But first things first: It was an accident. I’m not some fucked-up star who couldn’t deal. I could deal; I just couldn’t sleep.
Read the entire thing here, which Esquire is calling reported fiction. Whatever that means.