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That evening, Gérard Depardieu is worn out. Emptied: too many weeks filming Vidocq, his seventh filming in twelve months. Yet, and in spite of the advice of Carole Bouquet, his companion, the actor surrenders to the star, for the 61st birthday of his Bourgoin pal. The hours pass, the cadavers of bottles mount. And Gégé, with his usual generosity, does not rest. Also, the few accredited photographers are asked not to distribute the taken pictures. When he awoke, the following day, Carole Bouquet convenes the medical profession. Result: he is hospitalized in the early hours of Sunday morning.
Hyperactive, he doesn't always have the time to learn his lines.
Then of course, to explain this [heart] failure, one speaks of his over-indulgence. First, the movies: du Cri du cormoran. . . to Vatel while passing by Buffet Froid and Les Valseuses, not far from hundred twenty notches on the belt in a thirty year career. Then the feasting: he likes wine - and not only his, this château-de-tigné shared with Jean Carmet, distributed today by Crossroads and Planet Hollywood (of which he is shareholder); all opportunities are good enough to toast (one no longer counts the journalists that, after having interviewed him, left intoxicated); without speaking of the truckloads that he devours. A bewildering régime that has made him play yo-yo with the scale for twenty years. And the business! For five years Gérard has had telephones at his ear so often that he hardly has time to learn his lines (notably in The Man in the Iron Mask, where it was while arriving on the set that he read his lines, facing his partner, John Malkovich). Bourgoin on the first phone: "Let's piss off [the oil, NDLR] to Cuba!"; Mougeotte on the second. And sometimes also, Guillaume, his son, on the third, etc.
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