Urban Cowboy

Roy Dupuis has succeeded in getting his own particular appetites and his wild personality under control. Here he is, practically serene, at a crossroads …

"If there's one thing I loathe, it's talking about myself," declares a smiling Roy Dupuis, seated in the lounge of the agency that represents him, a place familiar enough that he feels at ease, but sufficiently neutral for him to reveal nothing about himself. In short, a perfect no-man's-land for a star who can now only go out in public with difficulty, who meticulously protects what remains of his private life, and who approaches every interview as if he's crossing a minefield.

The introduction doesn't surprise me, because I know already, having interviewed him 10 years ago, that the actor meets the press only with reluctance, because he has to. Open but cautious, frank but discreet, Roy Dupuis is a mountain of contradictions that seem however to evolve harmoniously. The fact remains that it is fascinating to analyse what has changed about him (and what hasn't changed) during these 10 years….

In 1992 Roy was (along with Marina Orsini) one of the two discoveries of the Filles de Caleb, a series all about us which was followed by 80% of the viewers in Quebec; a young 29-year-old actor, a little overwhelmed by his growing popularity, who spoke so little, so quietly and so slowly that interviewing him felt like interrogating the ghost of a dead man. In 2002 Roy is (along with Peta Wilson) one of the two stars of Nikita, a Canadian-American series broadcast in no fewer than 52 countries; an established star of 39 who handles his fame with equanimity, who no longer minces either his words or his ideas, who knows exactly what he wants to say …. and what he'd rather keep to himself.

"Let's say that you met me at a time when I was discovering fame," he says smiling, "but when I was also discovering how to "live it up". Being well-known was fun at the beginning, but it quickly became difficult to have personal relationships, a nightlife …. Then one day I said to myself, "So try something else…". And that's what I did."

Roy appears today similar and at the same time different to the man he was. Similar, because he still has the animal magnetism, the feline presence, the mixture of grace, talent and brute force that led many people to see him as a kind of Quebecois Marlon Brando. But he is also different, because he has stopped drinking for 6 years, he has had the same girlfriend for 7, he has been in psychoanalysis for 5, and he has finally found the house he has been dreaming about for 10 years. In summary, because the wandering earthman he has always been finally seems to want to settle down.

"This house is one of my great passions," he declares proudly. "I want to raise my children in it and to leave it to them when I die so that they remember where I came from and where they have come from …."

The story of Roy Dupuis, the almost mythical rise of the local lad from Amos who conquered the world, has assumed over many years and articles the style of a story learned by heart and recited in unison, whose details vary here or there like those of a fairytale told a thousand times: his birth on 21^st April 1963 in Abitibi, in the bosom of a family whose father (also called Roy) was a commercial traveller for Canada Packers, and whose mother, Ryna, gave piano lessons; his youth as a model pupil and all-round athlete, spent, with his elder sister Roxanne and his younger brother Rodrick, in excelling at hockey, swimming and even the cello; the family move to Kapuskasing, Ontario, when he was 11 years old, then his parents' divorce 3 years later which led mother and children to settle in the suburbs of Montreal; the beginning of his passion for the theatre as soon as he saw Ariane Mnouchkine's film Molière; his fortuitous acceptance to the National Theatre School after he had impressed the principal when he stood in (by chance) for the friend of a pal at an audition.

"My career is the result of coincidences," he explains. "If my parents hadn't got divorced, if I hadn't left Kapuskasing and if I had never seen Molière, I would maybe have been a hockey player today …."

What is certain in any case, is that the discovery of the city was, for this Abitibi lad, a much bigger shock than the revelation of the theatre and the cinema.

"You must realise that I lived in Amos till the age of 11. And when you have spent 11 years in a town of 12,000 inhabitants, you begin to know everyone and everyone ends up knowing you. Your relationships with people are not the same as when you live in a city, because you know that if you harm somebody a bunch of nasty people are going to know about it! <laughs>. And that has to be good; it gives you a good grounding for life. Except that when you reach 14 and you end up in the city, it's amazing the sensation of freedom you feel all of a sudden. Overnight I found myself meeting people and saying to myself, "I'll probably never see this person again. I could say anything I like to him! <laughs> I don't recall when I discovered that I could pay 20 cents on the bus and travel 20 kilometres, then pay another 20 and cross Montreal Island. And see all the churches, all the shops, all the bars …."

Ironically it's precisely the success that he dreamt about that put an end to this period of total freedom. "The day after the first showing of Filles de Caleb I realised as I was going out to buy a loaf of bread that my life would never be the same again. In one stroke I felt as though I was back in Amos and 11 years old again!" <laughs>

The joke reveals the whole irony of the situation: that of a man who loved above all the freedom that anonymity bought him and who today finds himself a prisoner of his celebrity. It's often said that Roy Dupuis was wild, and that's true. But on meeting him you realise that being "wild" doesn't just mean being fervent and uncontrollable, but also, paradoxically, being shy and timid.

"When I want to go away I look at the list of countries that are showing Nikita and  make sure I don't go there," he declares, smiling. "Recently I went to Turkey with my girlfriend, and it was fun because I wasn't known there."

While he has just sailed up the North Coast <the St Lawrence> "as far as Anticosti" with his partner, and along the eastern seaboard of Canada ("to visit sailing boat manufacturers"), he now spends most of his time at home, near the American border, in this farmhouse built in 1840, a peaceful retreat where he sees himself growing old.

In fact, it seems that the experience of Nikita, which spanned 5 years and which forced him to commute between Ontario and Quebec, prompted him to examine his choices more closely and to redefine his priorities.

"After Nikita I took a fresh look at myself. I confess that it felt long. Not the project itself, but because it was made far from home. Then there was the fact that my girlfriend was working here. That made matters more complicated.”
Add the deaths of his father and 104 year-old grandmother <actually it was his great-aunt – viv> both occurring in December 2000, and you have the picture of a man who was ready to go home and devote some time to memories of his family.

Does Roy miss Quebec?

“In a way, yes. These days I think that nothing turns me on as much as our native literature, the real nature of this place, the local people …”

As proof he has returned after a 5 year absence with two Quebecois projects: the series The Last Chapter, in which he plays Ross Desbiens, a rich biker who is trying to distance himself from the violence of the world of criminal biker gangs; and A Man and his Sin, a feature film which will be released at Christmas in which he plays the handsome Alexis, who captivates the gentle Donalda and incurs the wrath of old Séraphin Poudrier. Two projects which couldn’t be more different, reflecting the two poles of his personality: Roy of the city, with his leather jacket, his Harley and his reputation as an urban wild beast; and Roy of the fields, with his love of genuine things, his need for roots and his dreams of peaceful country living. 

“It’s actually two worlds that I’m familiar with. When I read the screenplay for The Last Chapter, with its plot-lines of drugs and bikers, it spoke to me straight away. And in A Man and his Sin I felt I had rediscovered something fundamental, something strong, basic …”

It is, however, a far cry from the experimental theatre or rather more high-risk films that enabled Roy to make a name for himself. Thinking amongst others of plays like The Dog or True West, and the feature film Being at Home with Claude … Does he miss the theatre, auteur cinema, works that are a bit more dark and daring?

“Certainly I miss the stage. To move from the theatre to cinema or television is a little like going from a big chocolate cake to a diet of water biscuits. <laughs>. Alright, I’m exaggerating, but it’s true that I miss it. And I would love to make auteur films. But there’s supposed to be a very unusual phenomenon in Quebec of branding you as kitsch and having only mass appeal, which means that certain <elitist> filmmakers don’t call you any more when they see your picture in the popular magazines. And that has stuck with me since Les Filles de Caleb, even though I made Being at Home with Claude immediately afterwards. One of my old pals who makes films said to me one day, “Why don’t you do auteur films?” I said to him, “The offers aren’t exactly coming out of my ears**.  Give me a call, then I’ll make them.” <laughs>

<** A non-literal translation of a rather more colourful Quebecois expression, suggesting a different orifice. Thought you’d like to know that. – viv>

As the interview comes to a close, I ask Roy what he thinks are his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. The response is immediate: “I don’t know and I don’t want to know!” A few moments later he returns to the question and he answers it in a very revealing fashion.

“In fact, there’s a good reason why I don’t want to know. Before I got into the National Theatre School I would often sing. At school I was taught how to. Since then I’m absolutely incapable of singing any more.”

There is a lull in the conversation. “So I tell myself that I’m an instinctive person, that there are things that it’s better I don’t know, questions that it’s better that I don’t ask myself.”

While I’m gathering up my stuff and he’s walking outside with me, Roy seems suddenly to relax, as if having seen me put away my tape recorder has lifted a burden from him. He begins to speak freely to me about the films that he’s watching back to back to catch up since the end of Nikita (he has just discovered Dancer in the Dark which he loved); about his games of hockey, the sport he has eventually taken up again; about documentaries (“the only thing I watch on TV…”) which he plans on directing; about the editing suite he has had built at home; about a thousand and one things he had just spent an hour and a half avoiding talking about. Then he leaves, smiling and relieved, to return to a world where he doesn’t have to avoid the gaze of the public and the questions of journalists, and where he is the anonymous king of a nameless land. Wild and free.

Thanks to Mary for fast-tracking the text across the Atlantic, and to Danièle yet again for her  local insight.

Want to get in the mood for A Man and his Sin? Read the original story (in English) here.