Rahad Jackson is a survivor. Of all the characters in Paul Thomas Anderson’s Boogie Nights – the doomed, the damned, the disturbingly well-endowed – he’s one of the few one can imagine emerging from the 1980’s intact. In fact, had there been a follow up, an anniversary party of sorts, one can easily see him arriving, hat in hand, with the liveliest stories to tell. Sure, he ingested enough illicit substances to decimate a small army, but he long ago developed an immunity. Name it, he’s swallowed it. Injected, snorted, or placed up his ass, if necessary. As he announces, with all the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas, “You want something to drink? A little pill, a little coke, a little dope? I got everything!”
And so he does. His home, a pulsating Xanadu of never-ending debauchery, is one of film’s great set pieces; proof positive that so long as the talent is aboard, you can take a minor character, give him some room, and hijack the conversation forevermore. Alfred Molina’s Rahad, more than just a one-and-done eccentric, is, above all, the film’s turning point. Certainly the deus ex machina for the man of the hour, one Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg). Absent the late-night visit with his hapless crew, it’s more than likely that Dirk would have been found good and dead in some seedy motel room at some point in the near future. At minimum turning tricks on Sunset to feed an out-of-control habit. Instead, by bearing witness to the true insanity of his predicament, he is born again. Something about an actual trip to hell to set things right. Or at least something slightly less askew.
Watch Dirk carefully as he stares into the abyss from Rahad’s couch. Sure, it’s the ultimate WTF moment, but just as importantly, it’s a basic question: why is this man so happy? Addiction is a sorry state, full of despair, theft, violence, and chaos. So why is Rahad all smiles? He dances, jokes, and roars with delight, even spending a good chunk of the evening pontificating about the glory of mixtapes. “I don’t want to be told what to listen to, when to listen to it, or anything,” he reasons, adding a “Fuck!” for emphasis. Clad in bikini briefs and one dynamite robe, Rahad gives a moustache-first defense of Night Ranger and Rick Springfield so impassioned, you wish he’d give up the life to work as a critic for Rolling Stone. Here is a man stoned out of his mind, yes, but he’s also a man with ideas. Passions. Firm beliefs worth debating, even as a Chinese kid fills the room with the sound and smell of firecrackers.
Sure, Rahad blows a large hole in Todd (it was his plan to rob Rahad, as if Rahad could ever be the victim of anything) and does his best to send Dirk and Reed to Jesus, but he’s only defending his turf, after all. Here he was being a gracious host, and these fucks start telling me what’s what? Leave it to Rahad to be more than prepared. And though he loses his mountain of a bodyguard, you know damn well he’ll be interviewing replacements before the sun rises. This is a man in full control – even while careening off a cliff – and you don’t get an estate like that by playing the fool. Guns strategically placed, drug testing equipment tableside, this is everything Dirk and his boys are not, and why he’s able to hand over bricks of cash like he’s serving tea. Oh, this? Plenty where that came from.
It has always been my belief that Anderson owed us a prequel, whereby we’d come to see the Scarface-like rise of Rahad, only without the fall. As stated, he’d endure. He’s no doubt resting in some exotic locale right this very minute; old, but never tired, holding court like some coked up Lear. But it’s the absence of a tragic nature that gives him strength, and even if he died in service of a lifestyle, it would be less of a waste than fulfillment of prophecy. Men like Rahad exist for a time, burn bright, but never really fade away. He’s the very reason we seek out such stories in the first place. Garish and obscene; overwrought as a matter of principle. And one of the few fictional creations we can imagine walking back into a bleeding, smoke-filled crime scene to live another day. By noon, not a trace of the night’s carnage remains. Open for business once again, with the twinkle to match. And “Sister Christian” cued up for inspiration.
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