"I just didn't want to be in the business anymore," Jim Carrey, 56 and tired of this shit, told The Hollywood Reporter in August. Carrey had taken an extended hiatus, effectively disappearing from public life for two years. He re-emerged from his tragicomic chrysalis no longer the jovial entertainer we remembered, but rather a political agitator who channeled his disillusionment onto a canvas. He was now an artiste, furiously scribbling Trump-skewering cartoons in felt marker and distributing them to his 17.9 million Twitter followers. Maybe he just wanted to share his art with fans à la Britney Spears. Or maybe the actor just stopped caring about being likable.
The people-pleasing Jim Carrey of the Ace Ventura era, the one that America fell in love with in 1994, had seemingly been replaced with a frank mouthpiece who had given up playing into the celebrity vanity that keeps the tabloid machine well-oiled. At last year’s Harper’s Bazaar New York Fashion Week party, for example, Carrey gave an interview on the red carpet. "There's no meaning to any of this," he said of the event. "So I wanted to find the most meaningless thing that I could come to and join and here I am."