Show all 16 episodes. Self voice. Show all 7 episodes. Documentary Self. Self - Jackass. Self - Audience Member. Self - Audience Member uncredited. Self - Celebrity traveller.
Self - Presenter. Melt the Ice, Perfect 10 Mansion, Freakfest Self uncredited. Show all 25 episodes. Hide Show Archive footage 13 credits. Related Videos. Alternate Names: P. Height: 6' 1" 1. Spouse: Naomi Nelson 2 children See more ». Edit Did You Know? Personal Quote: People think by challenging me they're going to show they're tough. But I'm not tough. Decent drinker. Not such a bad kisser. But not a great fighter. See more ». Rocko weighed in at 8 pounds and measured 20 inches. Trademark: His distinct and infectious laugh See more ».
Nickname: Johnny Jackass See more ». Star Sign: Pisces. Getting Started Contributor Zone ». Poppy Logo. FB house promo. Ive always had a crush in Johnny Knoxville. Share this article via facebook Share this article via twitter Share this article via messenger Share this with Share this article via email Share this article via flipboard Copy link. Share this article via comment Share this article via facebook Share this article via twitter.
I'm pretty happy. When he started in the line of work that would make him famous, Knoxville paid little attention to someday growing older. Shattered bones, dented teeth, trashed ankles, and a litany of other medical setbacks were tolerated. In some way, they were sort of the point—trophies amassed in the pursuit of great footage. In fact, Knoxville told me, this particular aftereffect traces back to the filming of the first Jackass movie, in , when he was knocked out by the nearly pound boxer Butterbean.
For the Jackass gang, the injuries got worse with time. And it takes less to knock us completely unconscious. Plus longer to wake up. For those reasons, along with the four concussions he suffered while shooting 's Action Point, Knoxville never thought a fourth Jackass movie was in the cards. Nevertheless, various cast members would now and then email the rest of the squad lobbying for them all to get back into their oversized shopping cart.
Each time, Knoxville resisted. There were physical concerns too. Knoxville wasn't alone. And not just the last one, but declared as the last one. Finally he felt himself getting the itch and asked his assistant to compile those ideas into a document. Tremaine, though, had his own concerns. Like, do people want to see a bunch of middle-aged dudes kick each other in the dicks? Just turn it all into a negative. What did you fucking expect? About halfway through our meal, Knoxville piped up.
Man, how have you been? I swung around to find that he was speaking to the actor John C. Reilly, seated next to us on the patio.
Reilly was dressed in a powder blue three-piece suit and boots. His big hat sat beside him. After the two had exchanged pleasantries and caught up a bit, Knoxville told me that he had gotten to know Reilly in the '90s, through Knoxville's then neighbor Heather Graham.
Thinking back to those days seemed to animate him. He had come to Los Angeles from Tennessee after high school with little more than the firm sense that he ought to be famous.
Freshly arrived, he fell in with a community of striving young actors, all gunning for first successes, still unsure of what those successes would look like or lead to.
One was Bikini; another was Big Brother, an infamously anarchic skateboarding mag. He dropped his given name, P.
Clapp, and adopted a pen name: Johnny Knoxville. I can do this and feel satisfied and engaged. But it was the writing work that switched him on and allowed him to provide for his newborn daughter.
It would also, in its own way, get him on television. He pitched the editors of Big Brother on conducting an experiment—testing the efficacy of pepper spray, a stun gun, a Taser, and a bulletproof vest by using them on himself.
The vest test required him to shoot himself with a pistol. Jeff Tremaine, the editor, assigned the story and suggested he also videotape his efforts. Knoxville survived and the magazine released a few videos that included his stunts. The tapes made their way around Hollywood, and Knoxville, Tremaine, and their director friend Spike Jonze showed a version to MTV, where executives said they wanted to build a show around this sort of thing.
Jonze was stunned. What followed, Knoxville still can't quite believe. It just happened in an instant. Jackass premiered in , a dick-shaped lightning bolt arcing across the firmament of cable TV. I was 11 at the time. I cannot describe how powerfully it reordered my sense of what was funny; nor can I express how rapidly it permeated the fundamental grammar of my friendships.
The first stunt that captured my attention, I told Knoxville, was a relatively simple one: Nutball, where participants strip down to their underwear, sit with their legs splayed, and take turns lobbing a racquetball at each other's crotches.
If you flinched, you lost. If you didn't flinch, you won—but also, you lost. In so many ways, Jackass was nothing more than that: the kind of shit boys do to make each other laugh, stretched into 22 minutes. It was a demolition derby starring human Looney Tunes. Knoxville, naturally, was Bugs Bunny, the stick of dynamite not quite hidden behind his back. His costars were a rowdy band of fuckups: skaters and stunt performers and one enormous guy and one Wee Man and, in Steve-O, one Ringling Bros.
They appeared to genuinely love one another—but to only be able to show that love through increasingly baroque forms of torture.
What they assembled was possibly the most efficient show in the history of television: Bits were rarely more than a minute or two long, and some of the strongest topped out at 15 seconds. It was wall-to-wall mayhem. It was easy at the time to describe Jackass as lowest-common-denominator entertainment, a feeble nadir in TV's race to the bottom.
With time, though, it became clear that the show was operating at the intersection of a number of ancient American traditions. If you squinted, you could see traces of Buster Keaton and the Three Stooges. Knoxville's outlaw influences were present too. Spike Jonze told me that he and Tremaine and Knoxville hadn't discussed how the stunts might be introduced on the show, so Knoxville improvised what would become a signature opening to each segment.
I was like, damn…no wonder it's so iconic. At the center of it all, of course, was Knoxville, handsome and chatty and willing to both suffer and inflict enormous indignities. Steve-O philosophized that Knoxville's magnetism was rooted in his clumsiness. Knoxville doesn't have any of that, so when Knoxville falls down, it's like, it's devastating.
Later, while conducting a Zoom call from his office chair, he'd pull his left leg behind his head to demonstrate.
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