I have before me the newly published Gothic: The Dark Heart of Film (A BFI Compendium). It’s a remarkably handsome volume and, I’d have
thought, a must-have for enthusiasts and students in this ever more ardently studied
field. But then 'we are for the dark', as Shakespeare had the serving maid say to Cleopatra.
I contributed a chapter to the book (on Satanism and witchcraft,
naturally) but it’s really not for that reason that I consider the work overall
to be essential. I’m just a one-time gothic novelist, not truly a specialist in
the discipline; however, inter alia, fellow contributors such as Guillermo del
Toro, Marina Warner, Christopher Frayling, Kim Newman, Anne Billson, Mark
Gatiss and Ramsey Campbell most eminently are. The richness and variety of this
collection, expertly assembled by the BFI’s James Bell and superbly illustrated
to boot, are to be savoured, in more than one sitting.
The book marks a BFI season that begins shortly and will run
into 2014. A fine taster of what lies in store was offered at the end of August
with a 'Monster Weekend' of special screenings in the forecourt of the British Museum: I
went along to the first of these, the movie being Tourneur’s Night of the Demon, and thought it a really delighting occasion.
I notice that I’m using a lot of ‘pleasure-words’ in
relation to the gothic here, which, funnily enough, is the spirit in which I
wrote my chapter for the book. For a long time I more or less believed that the
whole origin of the horror genre was quite aptly encapsulated by the ‘celebrated’
line from the Catholic Office of the Dead, ‘Timor mortis conturbat me’ (‘The
fear of death disturbs me.’) Our mortality, and that of those whom we love, is
after all the best if not the only thing in this world to be afraid of.
However, horror consumed as a cultural experience clearly
has to offer pleasure of sorts too, even if a somewhat masochistic one. Horror might
be said to indulge a certain phantasy about the existence of wickedness and depravity
in the world: how it might indeed triumph over good, or how, at least, certain
souls (deserving or not) could succumb to it. In the process, wickedness and
depravity may be dressed up with certain superficially alluring aspects – and when
it comes to such costuming, cinema is supreme among the arts. But at such a
puppet show it’s easier to spot the strings.
There are many aspects of the gothic that have great powers
to haunt and disturb and unnerve us, and gothic works that invoke devils and
demons and necromancers (what I thumbnail in my essay for convenience as ‘the
gothic occult’) are by no means excluded from that. Their particular powers,
though, feel to me a tad reduced. The gothic occult is predicated on the
existence of evil
as a metaphysical force in the world: a thirsty evil, one that wants to keep
its infection spreading. A really bleak gothic occult will propose a black
pessimistic view of Man's Fate – that the material world belongs to Satan and goodness
is unattainable, on this plane at least, etc. That all sounds scary enough on
paper, and can be so on screen.
And yet this particular version (or explanation) of a
metaphysical evil seems to me to require – how can I put it? – a more than
usual bound into the suspension of disbelief. By contrast, the idea of a ‘ghost’
– where a ghost might come from, what it might look like, what its motives might
be – seems to me endlessly recyclable and potentially mysterious, fit (if the
mood is right) to inveigle itself even into our wide-awake rational thoughts. Ghosts
appear to me as the absolute lifeblood of the gothic. But then to speak of devils,
of Satan... of a personification of evil, an antagonist to some almighty king
of the heavens, a figure at the head of a large hierarchical structure
committed to humanity’s ultimate catastrophe – well, this is to confront the
reader or viewer with a heftier (and consequently less nimble and persuasive) proposition.
Having written a novel in the Faust mode I appreciate the size of the ask, and
accept that one’s first duty under these conditions is to entertain.
The best, most persuasive work of fiction that I know of to
imagine Satan’s immanence in our world is Norman Mailer’s The Castle in the Forest(which is also perhaps the most decidedly gothic title anyone could ever
append to a novel.) If I can’t immediately tempt you to read it, please try
this superb interview with Mailer about the novel, written up by Philip Weiss
for the New York Observer. And do keep your eye on #bfigothic.
A footnote: when I was readying my Gothic compendium chapter for the
presses with BFI editor James Bell I was not surprised and quite amused to hear
from him that I ought to try to trim back on a rather prolix attempt I’d made to
define exactly what constitutes the gothic in cinema. Apparently, more than one
of my fellow contributors had fallen down the same dark well... and the effort
is probably doomed, one has to say. There’s nothing exactly Gothic in cinema, but it’s
generally agreed that we seem to know it when we see it, or feel it. Gothic is a visual style and a
mood, an atmosphere, enhanced above all by production design – one of gloom, intrigue,
dread, a pervasive sense of evil, which may well (but need not) materialize in outright
horrors. In the case of the gothic occult, this production design tends to dark secret places where cabals gather and rituals occur, the solemn
black mass and the orgiastic walpurgisnacht. And there you may also see the goat’s
head and the horned man, the grimoire, the beckoning finger of Mephistopheles –
all that...
The reviews of the book, meanwhile, have been uniformly splendid and written with a notable empathy.
Below is a selection:
‘A riveting tale of human fortitude… Not only is it an
action-packed account of a kidnapping and hostage situation, it is also the
story of how [Judith Tebbutt] triumphed psychologically against terror, semi-starvation
and isolation… The result is a page-turner… Fast-paced though the action is, it
is the psychological story that compels.’ Sian Griffiths, Sunday Times (£)
‘Exquisitely painful reading… Her account of learning to
live in freedom without either her husband or her job (which she was obliged to
give up, as the publicity surrounding her case made her too conspicuous to
continue her highly sensitive work) is deeply affecting…. Extreme as her
experiences of violence and privation were, it is the small details that are
the most plangent in this account, co-written with Richard T Kelly: the freshly
cooked samosas secretly passed to her by Amina, the pirates’ cook; the
incongruously pretty sequins on the curtains of her prison and – most bitter of
all – the loss of David’s wedding ring, stolen from his body before it was
flown back to Britain… When she allows herself to express emotion, as in her
final chapters on resuming what will never again be her ‘everyday’ life, it
becomes clear what heroic self-control has been required to tell her story.’ Jane Shilling, New Statesman
‘Judith Tebbutt’s story is inspiring, and leaves you with
the feeling that if this woman could show such fortitude, then so might we all…
Her story of terror, despair and survival is as gripping as any thriller, yet
told sparely, with no self-pity. It is a testament to the resilience of the
individual spirit, but also the the strength of family love… Vivid and detailed
enough to place you firmly in the shadow of this extraordinary woman… A book
which is a passionate affirmation of life.’ Bel Mooney, Daily Mail
‘This
unflinchingly honest memoir, written with Richard T Kelly, touches on Tebbutt's
childhood in ‘a working-class northern household’, yearning for escape yet
without high expectations of ‘being able to make my way in the world’; she
defied the odds to do just that… With great emotional acuity, Tebbutt offers a raw insight
into grief and the imaginative capacity to conjure loved ones absent through
distance or death. Tebbutt's training as a social worker, dealing with
vulnerable, violent people, proved vital in interacting with her captors,
championing humanity in the most inhumane situation. Her survival strategies
recall Mandela's disciplined prison regime in his memoir Long Walk to Freedom… This powerful book captures the urgency of
telling even the darkest of stories, and evokes the power of resilience in
adversity. ‘I have my freedom, so what am I going to do with it?’ asks Tebbutt.
A book that begins with a horrific death becomes a clarion call to cherish
whatever we might have left of life.’ Anita Sethi, Observer
‘A detailed, touching account, revealing not just how she
coped but also her tenderness for her husband.’ Colin Freeman, Daily Telegraph
‘This above all is a story of human fortitude. Of how
isolated, intimidated and almost starved, one brave middle-aged woman resolved
to be a survivor.’ Gerard Henderson, Daily Express
‘This unfussy book gives her version, firmly… It is not,
however, a self-aggrandising chronicle. Mrs Tebbutt is a wonderfully
straightforward narrator (assisted by Richard T. Kelly) and the book rings true
to her desire merely to tell ‘any future grandchildren’ how a person can
survive adversity and grief.’ Libby Purves, The Times (£)
I will never forget the frozen moment on the evening of Sunday September 12 2011 when I learned that David Tebbutt, finance director at my publishers Faber and Faber, had been murdered while on holiday on an island in the Lamu archipelago off Kenya’s northern coast. It was a catastrophe of the kind no-one could anticipate, and that it should have befallen such a fine and decent person as David only compounded the shock felt by all who knew him.
Making matters immeasurably worse, the sorrows came ‘not single spies but in battalions’, with the news that David’s wife Jude had been abducted by the people responsible for his death. One could barely imagine what might follow. Gradually, over weeks, it became clear Jude had been transported into Somalia and that this was a kidnap for ransom - offering at least the hope of a process by which her release could be secured. Yet the violence of the offence, and the lawlessness of the terrain, made that hope seem a vulnerable one. We were not to know how Jude sustained herself in the meantime, as weeks in captivity turned to months.
Then in March 2012 came stunning, thankful news, as Jude’s freedom was successfully negotiated by her and David’s son Ollie, and she returned to the UK. Now she has written an account of her ordeal in A Long Walk Home: One Woman’s Story of Kidnap. Hostage, Loss and Survival. The making of the book was something Jude conceived of while still a prisoner in Somalia: it was a significant process both of coming-to-terms and of commemoration for her, as described here by Julian Loose, her editor at Faber.
Because of my association with Faber and my background in biography and journalism, also my having known David, I was asked to assist Jude in the writing of the book. This was a privilege for me in a dual sense, both in terms of the honouring of David’s memory and for the opportunity to know Jude better – for she is, in her remarkable personal qualities, a person deeply worth knowing. Being so closely acquainted with the contents of A Long Walk Home it would be invidious for me to proclaim its virtues, however I do think I have sufficient objectivity to say that the story Jude tells, and her reflections – not just on what she has endured but on the life she has known both before and after tragedy struck – will repay anyone’s investment of time richly.
The British Council Korea made this lovely video compilation of
their 'Dickens 2012' commemorations last March. It's mainly in Korean, of
course, but there are a few snippets of me in preaching/teaching mode as the
grateful Visiting Novelist amid this cherishable project of cultural
exchange... I only wish they'd managed to capture the bit where I tried to explain to some young Korean
writers why Incheon is so much like Newcastle...
The special treat of seeing one of my books translated into a foreign
language always gives me a unique commingled feeling of sophistication and
idiocy: it is, after all, quite a thing to get to this age and see your name on
the cover of a book you can’t read.
My chief emotion in this case, though, is
just huge gratitude that my gothic novel The Possessions of Doctor Forrest has
been rendered into Spanish most elegantly (as Las posesiones del doctor Forrest) by Alba Editorial of Barcelona, as part of its Novela Negra imprint.
The cover alone, with a shiny spot-finish on the sinuous serpent, is
undoubtedly a thing of evil beauty. And this publication has renewed an association with Alba begun in 2001 when they also put out in Spanish my book on Dogme 95 (as El tÃtulo de este libro es Dogma 95.)
I owe a huge thanks to Idoia Moll and the house of Alba for hosting me
so generously in Barcelona last month to tie in with publication. I was interviewed by a
number of journalists at Alba’s wonderful offices, where I admired the great range of their publishing, embracing both the best of the contemporary plus a great array of the classics; I toured the famous Gothic
Quarter of Barcelona, which is everything that I heard it would be and more; and I signed books at the renowned Negra y Criminal bookstore. A great swathe of wall-space at Negra Y Criminal is generously decorated to
record visits paid by some of the great names of crime and mystery fiction. (I
was honoured, then, to take my turn at the time-honoured custom of posing in one of the shop’s branded
tee-shirts.)
The special pleasure for me of this interview was that we walked
together to the headquarters of the Royal Academy of Medicine of Catalonia,
originally the seat of the Reial Collegi de Cirurgìa de Barcelona (Royal
College of Surgeons of Barcelona). We then conducted the bulk of our
discussions in the rich, red and resplendent surroundings of its finely
preserved 18th-century anatomical theatre, named the Sala Gimbernat after the
great surgeon and anatomist Antoni de Gimbernat (1734–1790). The minute I
walked through its doors, you can imagine, I was in a kind of heaven - and very happy to pose for Clara Gabrielli’s camera with my brow tilted and hands strategically placed
on the marble dissecting table (as above.)
In the Sala Gimbernat of Barcelona's old surgical college, March 7 2013. Photo, Clara Gabrielli.
I must say all of the journalists I met in Barcelona was
terrifically well-informed and very courteous and it was a pleasure to talk to them: Josep Lambies from Time Out Barcelona, whose write-up isn’t online; Albert Cano of La Opinion a Coruna, who I’m very pleased to say reported me as ‘culto y con
capacidad para reÃrse de sà mismo’; Rosa Mora of El Pais, with whom I had a
useful discussion about what Doctor Forrest has to say on public and private
healthcare; and a woman from Regio 7 whose name now eludes me but who was
most kind in the piece she wrote.
So I consider myself very fortunate - a writer's life is good indeed when one can be treated so well and with such warmth on account of having written a book about the
guileful means by which the Deceiver exploits one man’s damnation so as
multiply the sum of misery in the world... May I be so lucky again.
It’s rare indeed that I find myself quite so far ahead of the
pop-cultural curve... but for anyone seeking insight into Baz Luhrmann’s new film version
of The Great Gatsby in advance of its Cannes premiere, I can direct
them to a long interview I did with Mr Luhrmann for the newly published Picador film tie-in edition of Fitzgerald’s novel.
The pilgrim will find much of interest in Luhrman's reflections, I feel – about the
influence on the director of Francis Coppola and Joseph Conrad, also of a
journey he took on the Trans-Siberian Railway; on Luhrmann’s compendious
research into Fitzgerald’s world and that of the novel; on the bold structural
choices he and Craig Pearce made for their screenplay; on his musical
collaborator Jay-Z’s opinion of Jay Gatsby’s character; of what Gatsby has to say
of its time and to ours; and more.
Our conversation was a privilege for me in more ways than
one: on top of his creative accomplishments Mr Luhrmann is a hugely eloquent
and engaging speaker, witty and charming, free of airs and, I should say,
a gentleman, too. His movie is very keenly awaited, of course. But I’m very struck by what I’ve heard and seen,
and I’m certainly wishing this Gatsby all the very best, old sport.
This is how our conversation wound round to its conclusion:
RTK: In their famous interview Alfred Hitchcock and Francois
Truffaut agreed there was a problem about turning great books into films
because the books were already masterpieces, made out of words, which pictures
couldn’t emulate. Clearly, having made 'Romeo + Juliet' you’re happy to work with
classic texts. But do you feel there is something about 'Gatsby' that you have to
try to be ‘faithful’ to, to satisfy the book’s admirers? Or are you content to
say to audiences, ‘This is the way I see it...’
Baz Luhrmann: Of course I hear that perspective. But there
have been some pretty good cinematic goes made of some great books... There may
be people out there with large pieces of wood counting down the days until the
movie is out so they can come and hit me... ‘How dare you?’ And I understand
that, and I don’t take it lightly. Nonetheless – I love the book too. And I
always think great literature is there to be interpreted in many different
ways, in different times and by different people – for example, I look forward
to the next person who does a 'Romeo and Juliet' movie different to mine. To me,
what defines greatness in literature, culture, of any kind, is that it’s able
to move through time and geography, it can play in any country and continues to
play in any era. And that’s true of 'The Great Gatsby'...
Another thing I must say about this Picador edition is that
it’s quite a thrill for me to have some of my words – be they very simple ones
– bound up between covers with those of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s and a novel that
I, like millions of readers, think of as one of the most brilliantly achieved
in English.
It has a special little nostalgia for me because I studied
Gatsby for the A-Level English Lit paper I sat back in the summer of 1989. I have before me,
in fact, the A-format Penguin paperback that was my text at the time: unusually
zealously annotated with pencil-scribbles, a source of amusement to me today, for as
long as no-one else gets to see them.I’m reminded, for one thing, that the 18-year-old Me was strongly
persuaded of Wilde’s maxim that only shallow people fail to judge by
appearances. I don’t think I would want such a judgement levied today – or not
on myself, at any rate.
I would, though, stand by the pencilled ‘Genet!’ that I put
beside Nick Carraway’s early description of Tom Buchanan’s ‘cruel body’, an interesting way for one guy to look at and describe another guy’s figure.
Gatsby is often thought of, or remembered, as a romantic book, as a love story.
And yet the ostensible love object, Daisy, is really not such a nice girl –
unworthy of all the fuss, you might say. And so the ‘romance’, finally, lies
more in Jay Gatsby’s outsized illusions about her and the world (for which he
constructs his dazzling facade of a life, and then throws that life away.)
Or does it? Is the biggest romantic crush in the book
actually the one Nick Carraway has on Gatsby, in whom he finds ‘something gorgeous’ (above and beyond his pink suit), even after all the shows of ostensible disapproval...? This theme of latency
has been explored in more recent criticism of the novel, I believe. I don’t say I go along
with it. I only note it.
I wish someone had told me Sam Shepard and Jessica Lange broke up,
because I’m nearly sure that, oh, thirty years ago or whatever, their getting
together was the chief reason I started to believe in romantic love. Of course
you have to grow up sometime, and I’d have missed a big point about Shepard’s celebrated
writing if I clung too close to a comforting shadow. But then you may perhaps recall the
special allure of the Shepard/Lange story.
Circa 1981, he was married, but not happy. (In a poem of the period he
wrote feelingly, ‘I’ve about seen/ all the nose jobs / capped teeth / and
silly-cone tits / I can handle // I’m heading back to my natural woman.’ This
was reproduced in a book to which we will shortly turn, and next to a photo of his first wife...) As for
Lange, she had a daughter (named Shura!) from another relationship (with Mikhail
Baryshnikov!). But then she and Shepard crossed paths, and that was that. ‘No
man I've ever met compares to Sam in terms of maleness’, Lange was quoted a few
years down the line. Patti Smith, a former Shepard flame, had formed a similar
impression: ‘He was just everything that one could want... he had this animal
magnetism. It was almost visceral... He was born for rock n' roll.’
That’s a very high bar to set in terms of ‘maleness’; and I just can’t
think of a man who wouldn’t be impressed by these estimations, coming from such
estimable women. But here’s what really got me dreamy about the Shepard-Lange fandango.
In an interview he gave to The Face around 1984 – which took place in some
diner, likely close to the locations for a movie he was making with Lange
called Country – the reporter recorded Shepard noticing Lange pass outside
the window, maybe 20 yards or so away, whereupon he pushed open a slat in the
window (one of those windows, see) and shouted for her to come over and give
him a kiss. Playfully she fended his request away for some moments, but he kept
imploring, unabashed, and at last she sashayed his way, and he tried to lean
out the window, only those damn slats proved too obstructive. So Shepard spend
a minute or so wheedling a slat right out of its frame. So he could lean out
and Lange could give him a kiss. Which she then did.
Now, we should all have that kind of relationship: it’s what God wants.
As late as 2010 Shepard was telling the Observer’s Carole Cadwalladr
that he and Lange’s relationship was ‘tumultuous’: ‘Yeah, well, we're
definitely an incredible match. But, you know, not without fireworks… although
at this point, you know, she's the only woman I could live with... What other
woman would put up with me?’ Now it appears as if the relationship may well
have been over when that interview took place. Must all things change, et cetera?
I found out this distressing news from googling about after reading a
Paris Review interview with Shepard about his craft, which, like every Paris
Review writer’s Q&A I’ve ever read, is utterly superb and constitutes a
lesson in how and why to write.Shepard, it has to be said, is a more striking and compelling figure of
a man – has led a rather more intriguing life – than the average scribe; and
it’s a very easy thing to get pulled into his laconic, reticent telling of the
way he’s gone about things.(Consider, too, this fine Details interview with Jeff Gordinier in which
Shepard's very succinctly right reflection on what age will do (‘It’s crazy, you know.
Time is just nuts’) leads him without fuss into an anecdote about resuming his
friendship and working relationship with Patti Smith, including a recording of 'Smells
Like Teen Spirit' on which Shepard played guitar, which is quite a thing.)
In fact, the more I think about Shepard, the more I feel as if he’s
been – if not everything to me – then a very great many things.
(i) Frances (1982) was one of the first grown-up movies I saw, and aside
from being generally impressed by its grit and pathos, I felt about the
'chemistry' between Shepard and Lange the way people talk – and I appreciate but don’t
see – about Bogart and Bacall (since Bogart was no pin-up, whereas Shepard in
his prime looked... well, like Patti Smith said.) The Right Stuff (1984) drove this
'attractiveness' thing home. Of course Shepard has offered many great variations on why he never felt
like being a movie star, turned down umpteen big films, quite often because he ‘couldn’t
be bothered to take his shirt off.’ We should all be so lucky to be so unbothered.
(ii) When I was 13 I had a car-windscreen sticker stuck onto my schoolbag
that read I ❤
Paris Texas: arguably the ineffective and yet greatest piece of movie
marketing ever attempted. (Bravo, Palace Video.) And I can’t say the lads in
the schoolyard were very impressed. But I really did love Paris Texas: adapted
by Shepard from his book Motel Chronicles, and possibly the first ‘art movie’ I ever
saw, and the one that sort of instructed me in the near-mesmerically uneventful
rhythm of those kinds of pictures. One sort of knew it had been made by a
foreigner, which also seemed to explain the presence of Nastassja Kinski. Yet
it was equally clear to me that it was a Western; and that may be why for a few
years I preferred Paris Texas to the kinds of Westerns that had cowboys in
them.
(iii) On account of this Paris Texas love, I went out and bought my own
copy of Motel Chronicles, possibly the first book I owned from the imprint of
Faber and Faber. Young people have always got besotted by America because of
its art, even terse and tough and non-ingratiating art such as Motel Chronicles,
because wide open spaces under big skies where still one can connect nothing
with nothing have their very own poetry. Motel Chronicles had that effect on
me. (A dozen or so years later, once I had the extraordinary good fortune to be published
by Faber and Faber myself, I learned about the key role in all this of the
influential figure of Walter Donohue, who had worked with Shepard on the Paris
Texas script, overseen the picture’s green-lighting at Film Four, and acquired
Motel Chronicles for Faber once he took up an editor’s chair there. Like many
things to do with Mr Donohue, that is another story. The main point is that a link to Faber must have been quite
important for Shepard – because they published his hero, 'Mr Beckett'.
(iv) The first Shepard plays I saw were filmed versions, beginning with True West, on
television, starring the Chicago Steppenwolf boys, Gary Sinise and John Malkovich.(Shepard has called Malkovich – and I agree – ‘one of my favourite
actors on stage because he is so outrageous. I mean, he just doesn’t give a
shit.' And True West could instruct a young man how to write a play, if not
necessarily a good one. As Shepard says of the play’s brothers: ‘I mean,
basically they’re the same person. It’s just a split. I just wrote ’em as two
characters, but they’re basically two conflicting parts of one person...')
Then came Robert Altman’s theatrical film of Fool for Love, which, you can
see even by this trailer, wasn’t particularly good. But then Shepard was never sure
about the play, which was sort of about him and Lange: ‘More than anything, falling in love causes a certain female thing in a
man to manifest, oddly enough’, he told Paris Review. ‘I had mixed feelings
about it when I finished. Part of me looks at Fool for Love and says, This is
great, and part of me says, This is really corny. This is a quasi-realistic
melodrama. It’s still not satisfying...’
(v) The play of his I finally got to see on stage was Lie of the Mind,
around 1987, at the Royal Court. It’s 25 years ago now but I can still see and
hear in my head the stunning coup de theatre where Beth (Miranda Richardson),
beaten half to hell by her husband and comatose since, sits up in her bed with
a terrible shriek.
(vi) The first exchanges I had with Sean Penn over my effort to persuade him
to approve my writing a book about his life and work were in autumn 2000, while
he was rehearsing Shepard’s The Late Henry Moss in San Francisco, with Nick
Nolte and Woody Harrelson. Sean raised his eyebrows when I told him the book
might take as little as three months of his time, if it were done with passion.
Three years later I was still dogging him around Marin County... And round that
same time Harrelson explained to me why autumn 2000 was a testing time for
Shepard, who had been drinking too much for a while, an illness that beset his
father and which, by all those references to ripple wine in Motel Chronicles,
the reader might have feared. This is what Harrelson said:
'Sam
was going through some stuff. Within a week into it, Sam doesn’t even come to
rehearsal. We all come in, he’s not there. Comes in the next day, he’d had some
major deal with his heart... And the doctor’s told him he can’t smoke any more
cigarettes, but – but [laughs] – a
glass of wine in the evening can help to thin the blood, you know? Well, he
didn’t know who he was dealing with... The good thing about Sam, even though he
was smoking cigarettes like a fiend, he wasn’t drinking. Well, once the doctor
opened that door for him, it was a whole different ball of wax...'
(vii) A musical score for Henry Moss was composed and performed on the stage
by T-Bone Burnett, the brilliant songwriter-musician-producer who can even be
forgiven for turning Bob Dylan on to Jesus. Back then I’d loved Burnett’s
contributions to records like Elvis Costello’s King of America and The Golden
Palominos’ Blast of Silence without putting down the money for his solo albums.
The one I finally bought, quite recently, was The Tooth of Crime, a set of
songs that he wrote originally for a mid-1990s staging of Shepard’s play about
a war of style between two rockers young and old, Hoss and Crow. It’s a
wonderful record and it puts you strongly in mind of the moods in Shepard’s work.
This song is 'Dope Island.'
(viii) And now it turns out that a whole new record of songs has been
released, inspired by Motel Chronicles. It’s by The Dark Flowers and called Radioland. The Dark Flowers are a loose ensemble and for this project they’ve
enlisted vocal talents ranging from Jim Kerr of Simple Minds and Peter Murphy, once
of Bauhaus – bands I listened to before I even saw Frances – to Dot Allison and
Catherine AD, whose work is held in high regard around this parish.
(ix) There’s a view that over the last 20 years Shepard has acted in more
movies than have been useful to his productivity as a writer. Though I don’t
think Shepard takes that view himself, and I am not qualified to comment. I do
wish I had seen States of Shock, written around the time of the first Gulf
War, and The God of Hell, which was timed for that year’s US
presidential election. Maybe the chance will come again. I wouldn’t want to
just read them, that’s for sure.
(xi) In 2010 he told Carole Cadwalladr: ‘The funny thing about having all
this so-called success is that behind it is a certain horrible emptiness. All
this stuff is happening. And yet it is not what you are after as a writer... there's
this feeling… what is it, then? And, I guess, it's the writing itself which is
important.’
(xii) And right at the front of this extract from a PBS documentary (below) we return to where it probably all
began for Shepard, and where, as it happens, Shepard began for me, and for so many
people: Shepard on his father, from Motel Chronicles.
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