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There was a moment in Hollywood history when one man stood at the absolute peak of fame, power, and influence—and then willingly questioned it all.

That moment came in 2003, when Jim Carrey, the most bankable comedy star on Earth, agreed to do something no actor had ever done quite like this before.

He played God. On the surface, Bruce Almighty looked like another Jim Carrey vehicle.

Big laughs. Big faces. Big box office.

But beneath the comedy was something far more unsettling, especially for the man at its center.

Because when Jim Carrey played God, he didn’t just pretend to wield divine power on screen.

He was forced to confront what power actually meant in his own life.

And it changed him.

At the time, Jim Carrey was unstoppable.

He had conquered comedy, broken into drama, and become one of the highest-paid actors in history.

Fame obeyed him.

Studios bent to him.

Audiences followed him anywhere.

In many ways, he already lived the fantasy Bruce Nolan stumbles into in the film—total control, instant gratification, and the illusion that success equals fulfillment.

That irony was not lost on Carrey.

In Bruce Almighty, Carrey’s character is handed the powers of God and quickly discovers that omnipotence does not bring happiness, wisdom, or peace.

Instead, it amplifies ego, chaos, and responsibility.

Carrey later admitted that the role struck uncomfortably close to home.

Because Jim Carrey knew what it felt like to have the world at his fingertips—and still feel empty.

During filming, those close to Carrey noticed a shift.

He was still energetic, still hilarious, but more introspective.

He questioned scenes.

He asked philosophical questions.

He talked about free will, suffering, and why humans constantly look for external solutions to internal pain.

Playing God forced him to confront the limits of control.

The film’s message—that humans are not meant to carry divine authority—hit Carrey harder than anyone expected.

In interviews years later, he acknowledged that Bruce Almighty was one of the first times he truly questioned the value of fame itself.

If having everything didn’t bring peace, then what was he actually chasing?

The answer unsettled him.

Shortly after, Jim Carrey’s career began to change—not because audiences abandoned him, but because he started pulling away.

He chose stranger projects.

Darker roles.

Films that challenged identity, reality, and meaning.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was not a coincidence.

Neither was his growing discomfort with Hollywood culture.

The man who once thrived on applause began questioning the audience.

Jim Carrey has since spoken openly about ego, depression, and the illusion of self.

He has said that the idea of “Jim Carrey” as a fixed identity is something he no longer believes in.

To many, these ideas sounded radical.

To him, they were inevitable.

Because once you pretend to be God—and realize how hollow power feels—you start asking different questions.

Carrey has described fame as “a game” and success as “a costume.

” Those ideas did not emerge overnight.

They were forged during years of playing characters who had everything yet remained broken.

Bruce Almighty was the clearest expression of that paradox.

The role showed him something uncomfortable: people project meaning onto figures of power, but power itself provides none.

That realization echoed throughout his later life.

Carrey began painting.

Writing.

Withdrawing from the spotlight.

Speaking about consciousness rather than contracts.

While some fans were confused, others recognized something deeper unfolding.

Jim Carrey wasn’t losing his mind.

He was losing his attachment to the illusion.

Playing God did not inflate his ego.

It dismantled it.

He has since said that suffering taught him more than success ever could.

That being adored taught him less than being alone.

And that control—whether divine or celebrity-level—is not the same as purpose.

In hindsight, Bruce Almighty feels less like a comedy and more like a warning.

Not to audiences—but to Jim Carrey himself.

The man who once embodied excess learned restraint.

The performer who once chased approval learned detachment.

The actor who once commanded the world stepped back and asked whether the world was ever meant to be commanded at all.

That time Jim Carrey played God was not a career highlight.

It was a turning point.

And long after the laughs faded, the lesson remained: even when you can do anything, it doesn’t mean you should—and it certainly doesn’t mean you’ll be happy.

In the end, Jim Carrey didn’t stop playing God because the role ended.

He stopped because he realized no one should ever want that job in the first place.