“If the cops are
around, something good must be happening.”
Charles Bukowski says
this with a twinkle in his eye, but knowing what we do about him, he was
probably serious. The acclaimed writer, unapologetic alcoholic, and failed
misogynist is resurrected in John Dullaghan’s Bukowski: Born Into This (Friday, January 14, 8 p.m., Dryden Theatre, 271-4090), a loving warts-and-all
look at the patron saint of the hipsters.
Footage from European
TV interviews delivers the bulk of Bukowski’s own words, which are delivered in
his lazy Southern California way that turns hard and violent when mixed with
red wine. He smokes tiny brown cigarettes and, like most writers, can spin a
good yarn, whether it’s about losing his virginity at 24 years old to a
300-pound prostitute or his distasteful experience with the Hollywood machine
while inspiring director Barbet Schroeder to make Barfly (which shows Thursday, January 13, at the Dryden).
“If your parents
begin to like your work, it’s getting bad.”
Bukowski gives his
unfortunate Depression-era childhood a large amount of the credit/blame for his
hardboiled outlook. Daily beatings from his stern father and a face ravaged by
a severe form of acne caused young Henry Charles Bukowski to withdraw and start
writing at the age of 13 because it was “the easiest thing to do.” A
heartbreaking story finds him standing outside his prom with his face wrapped
in blood-speckled toilet paper, too embarrassed to go inside.
Bukowski’s column,
“Notes of a Dirty Old Man,” ran in couple of alternative Los Angeles
papers, and he published a number of volumes of poetry during the time he also
worked a soul-sucking post-office job. In 1970, he accepted the patronage of
John Martin at the Black Sparrow Press, who persuaded him to quit the post
office and paid him $100 per month to spend his time writing. John Martin
recounts that when he remarked to Bukowski that a novel might make more money
than poetry, Bukowski answered with Post
Office, his first semi-autobiographical novel, a few weeks later.
Bukowski’s luck with
women directly corresponded to his fame, which he notes with a wry resentment.
His widow, Linda Lee, looking like a virtual saint herself after seeing footage
of him verbally baiting and then kicking her during an interview, discusses her
longtime friendship and patience with a troubled yet brilliant man. Bukowski
died from leukemia in 1994 at the age of 73, but seemed to have found some
peace in the years prior to his death.
The requisite cool
celebrities pop up to pay homage and share anecdotes about Bukowski. Sean Penn
was a friend, as was Harry Dean Stanton, and musician Tom Waits (none of those
associations are at all surprising, incidentally). Bono didn’t know him that
well, but any chance to listen to an Irishman read poetry should be savored.
Bukowski also once
advised a friend to “Drink, write, and fuck.” That about sums it —
and him — up.
In Eugene Green’s minimalist fairy tale The Living World (Le Monde Vivant) (Saturday, January 15, 8 p.m., Dryden Theatre,
271-4090) the only way to recognize the knights is by the swords at their side
— their jeans and button-down shirts don’t give them away. And the solitary
means of identifying the lion is by his ferocious roar; otherwise, he looks
surprisingly like a dog.
Nicolas (Adrien Michaux) is traveling through the forest when
he first meets up with the Lion Knight (Alexis Loret) and his… um… lion (Sam).
The Lion Knight is on the trail of an ogre (Arnold Pasquier) who has imprisoned
his beloved (Laurene Cheilan) in a chapel, though his head is turned once he
meets the ogre’s cooperative wife (Christelle Prot). Nicolas happens upon the
chapel and falls for the imprisoned demoiselle as well, setting him off in
search of the ogre and the Lion Knight. Duels, fickle chicks, and tasty
children abound.
It’s your standard
tale of daring young men rescuing damsels in distress, but the execution is
what makes it so much fun. The choppy fairy-tale language is infused with
modern slang (“That’s maximus cool.”) and it’s delivered in such a
deadpan way that makes you feel as though you’re witnessing the worst acting on
the planet or the finest performances ever given.
The film’s references
to the Jules Ferry laws and French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan will go over the
head of at least 90 percent of the audience, so allow me to help: According to
my internet research, where everything is true, Jules Ferry is remembered for
championing laws that removed Catholic influence from most education in France,
and Jacques Lacan was a devotee of Freud who advocated therapy sessions lasting
only a few minutes and argued that the ego could not be healed. How does this figure
into the film? I’m not sure yet.
The Living World‘s
simple dialogue makes it a great tool for people trying to learn French (if you
don’t peek at the subtitles), and it should be required viewing for filmmakers
who equate a movie’s budget with its quality. And though there’s one scene of a
cartoonish blood geyser, kids who can keep up with the subtitles should dig it
as much as the adults.
This article appears in Jan 12-18, 2005.
