There's movies about drunks made by sober folks for sober folks (i.e. Days of Wine and Roses) and then there's movies about drunks made by drunks for drunks, such as NIGHT OF THE IGUANA. It's directed by John "drunk in Mexico" Huston, written by Tennessee "alcoholic beachboy junky" Williams, and stars Richard "King Drunkus" Burton. Whether snoring through high-steppin' crap like EXORCIST 2: THE HERETIC or THE MEDUSA TOUCH, chewing scenery indiscriminately between woozy waves of hungover nausea in DR. FAUSTUS and BOOM! or--in very rare moments of clarity--brilliantly acting, Burton was always one drink ahead of his slur; a surfer sliding and laughing down the tube as lightweights collapsed in his wake. If he didn't always land gracefully, well, blame the floor or the script, not the man, usually. But he had his weaknesses. He had appetites. And he fed his appetites. And when a great writer knew and drank with him, and too drank and knew appetites, appetites of the sorts condemned by moral matrons blind to their own butch yearnings, them a mighty force was in the works. Only a great shaper of drunken, mighty force could harness such a booming collaboration into beauty and eloquence of a manly tune - a towering friend to the drunken titan, like John Huston. The result of this great meeting of three minds, NIGHT OF THE IGUANA, has been called indulgent male narcissist male gazing by bitch-ass punks and people who never knew the awful terror of depression, loneliness and fear that coalesce when a day of youthful waggery, public adoration, groupies, endless free drinks, velvet ropes opened before you like a red sea of admiring faces, suddenly gives way to hostile, indifferent night, alone - shivering - paying full price for even a plain diet coke.
I'd graduated college in Syracuse, where I'd been played bass in a locally popular acid rock cover band; I moved to Seattle with my hot girlfriend; I did the Noel in a Hendrix Experience cover band until the Hendrix guy got arrested and I wouldn't co-sign his bond and put up my car as collateral, whatever. No one came to see us anyway, except our girlfriends. Being just 22 and naive as all hell, I was genuinely surprised how hard it was translating my Syracuse local rock god glory to a town that, as anyone who's tried to move there knows, is very insular, and depressing. I became a hopeless drunk with few friends (all from California). I hung out at the Blue Moon tavern a lot, trying to score weed while various people tried to pick up my hot girlfriend and I let them on the off chance they had weed (but really--how could I stop them?) At home I read Hate and Eightball comics and listened to records of old blues and/or old radio shows while guzzling whiskey highballs and eating peanut butter on crackers; I watched endless WC Fields and Jack Hill movies (fell in love with Spider Baby for the first time), and drank more and more while the endless rains fell on our U-district one bedroom apartment's flat-top roof. A great way to sink into a cold depression, and love every sick minute of it.
My too-hot girlfriend became disenchanted. She had too many good offers from affluent non-screwed up hippie bros. We broke up while shrooming at the aquarium, the sadness of a tank of black fish polluted her viaducts with melancholy. I left her there in our apartment and hit the road for home, shrooming all the way across the country via route 90. I hit Syracuse along the way, right in time for the hardcore psychedelic revels that marked the end of the semester/earth day, an annual block party. Crashing with myriad yet-to-graduate friends and bandmates, I was out of the band but still invited onstage to jam and do funnels. I may have been nothing but a cut-rate Noel Redding imitator in Seattle, but in Syracuse I was still a lizard king-ish icon. Free at last, girls literally standing in line to welcome me back after the show as I sat there on my bass amp throne, each forcing each other out of the way, clamoring for my ear; my head full of cocky entitlement and psilocybe (a great combination), it was the happiest two weeks of my life.
But May ended, the last of the straggling students left, and finally, the last person I knew still dawdling had left for home. I had nowhere else to crash, so... still glowing from two weeks of validation, sex, drugs, rock and roll, I finally drove home--fanfare trumpets in my Lou Reed and Stones-soaked ears--to New Jersey and the Kuersten family tract. I was three grand in debt and a week late. I walked in expecting to just say hey and make a drink. My mom was there, furious, waiting. She started right in lecturing and a man had been waiting there, in the kitchen, to give me a urine test for life insurance. She hadn't even told me. This being the time of "Just say no," when you could go to jail for decades just having a joint in your car, I knew what would happen if I gave one up. So I went from living the "lush life" as king of the world to making hurried, vague excuses why I couldn't give a urine sample to my mom, enduring her scathing silences and near-tears looks, the beige walls and the hostile yet disinterested depressive silence of that house hit me like a tidal wave hitting a once-merry surfer. I had no friends in town, nowhere to go, no one even to call.
That night I lay in my crappy little twin bed in my old room, as miserable as I've ever been. I finally missed my hot Seattle girlfriend, it ached. I missed the girls I'd rebounded with in Syracuse - though by then they were all mad at me. (Who could blame them!? In an effort to not ruffle feathers, I'd slept with two different girls who lived in the same house, trying to not break up their friendship after they each confessed liking me while the other was getting us beers - naturally they found out, and decided to stay friends and unite against me). I was reaping the shit I'd been sowing, all at once. My pillow wet with tears, I was too young to understand the anguish of validation withdrawal, going from a life of constant drunk, stoned, tripping, collective love (welcomed onstage with my old band at the height of their popularity; never having to buy my own drinks or pay a cover, etc.) to one of silently hostile maternal indifference and crushing solitude. I didn't understand 'depression' - kids had to try to commit suicide to get a therapist back then - it was a stigma and SSRIs were still experimental and stigmatized (not that I knew of them) - but now, strung out on Effexor and Wellbutrin, I know I'd suffered from it all my life --it all came back and coalesced in that house like a thick fog around me. Suddenly I felt the full weight or all the great shit I'd thrown away in the name of what I called at the time "the sacrifice of love for love's sake," of walking away from the band and the girl while the memories were still sublime - not riding it into the ground. That sense of sacrifice made it all so sweet at the time. But now.... there was only pain.
Men weren't allowed to cry back then. We were supposed to man up, tie our ties and take temp agency typing tests every day until we died. Man, that Seattle girl was so hot, bro. Shit. The things I disliked about her faded into trifles while her beauty glowed every more painfully from the 3,000 mile vantage point and I was yet too young to understand why that was. Now I'd be unable to smoke pot for at least a week (when the urine taker returned), needing to wash my system out with daily jugs of water and refraining from all "dry goods" in a state of uneasy paranoia.
I was so sad that night, I couldn't sleep. I'd never been too sad to sleep before. I never had a pillow soaked with literal hot tears before. Never. It was hell and it went on forever, hour after hour as I lay there until I could finally hear the snores of both my parents in the next room.... like an 'all clear' alarm.
I crept downstairs to see if I could perhaps find solace in TV and the parental liquor cabinet.
Suddenly out of the fog of paid programming whom should appear? Richard Burton, in color on TNT (Ted Turner was colorizing everything it could get its hands on), fending off Sue Lyon's irresistible advances down in Mexico and basically giving voice to all my miserable woe right there on the spot and the rum hit me like a warm hug right as I saw Burton's magnificent drunk face and recognized the girl as the same hottie from "Lolita."
I was going to be all right... the whole movie was about what I was going through. "It makes it easier to get through nights that are hard for us to get through," Miss Hannah Jelkes says of her poppy seed tea. Clearly I was enjoying being at the end of my rope on a green carpet hilltop instead of Golgotha, the Place of the Skulls, i..e. my parent's tract home in Bridgewater, NJ, bathed in the forgiving glow of rum and orange juice. "Isn't that a comfortable, almost voluptuous crucifixion, Mr. Shannon?"
I rushed to tape it, missed about the first 45 minutes, realized it was playing again the following night so I could tape the whole thing. Thank you, God! Thank you, rum! There was still some left! And Richard Burton! Thank you, John Huston! Thank you, you old savior and lonesome Tennessee Williams! They all 'got it' And of course, thank you, Sue Lyon and all the other irresistible, cool, unique or awful women that Burton deals with in the film: thank you, tangle of closeted lesbian cock-blockers, nymphs, sexually active widows and middle-aged virgin quick-sketch artists with your tins of opium poppy seed tea.
I'd avoided the film prior to this moment because of childhood resentments against the "Iguana" in the title. What monster-loving child expecting giant iguana attacks wants to see "alcoholic priests dealing with various women in Mexico" Some people don't like this film for other reasons than its lack of rampaging giant iguanas. They see Reverend Lawrence T. Shannon as too passive, letting himself by fought over, pursued and pushed this way and that by various ladies, including Lolita's butch guardian, Miss Fellowes (Grayson Hall). To these critics he's little more than a rag doll, flopping in one pair of jaws after another, barely able to choose or fight back, unwilling to sober up and escape. They said he was pathetic with self-pity, trying to swim out to his death the minute he doesn't get his own way. They were right, but can I suggest that if you hate him because of that, well, maybe you wish some girls would fight over you while you laid back in a similar rag doll fashion?
Take it from me, and Burton, Huston and Williams, then - you're better off wishing for it then getting it, because as Liz Phair would sing, if you do get it and you're still unhappy, then you know that the problem is you. And worse, as hollow a pleasure as it is, if you get used to it and then, the minute it stops, the agony of not having it kicks in, like opiate withdrawal. You see it all the time in Hollywood, the aging starlets turning themselves into duck-like gargoyles to vainly try and get their 'fix' of adoration. And so--in desperation--when a ride shows up you nearly always say yes, wherever it's going. And that's never good because they want you for reasons not your own. The only way out of one dysfunctional lover's claws is when some other chick bothers to scoop you up and steal you away for another. Whatever the new temptation is, you take it. The alternative is an ever-tightening noose of co-dependence as your last temptation slowly ages into a death trap, or what AA calls "taking a hostage" or worse, dying alone - every minute of the night. Eventually all the girls you mesed around with are going to get together and compare notes. Girls might get branded slutty in high school but they're always absolved (it's the men's fault), but men get branded later and it's forever. Because women compare notes, and they all never look at you the same way again.
You know the score, dear reader, everyone has had their May 1990, that shining moment when more than one person is fighting to take you home to their place and you just soak it all up and let them fight it out, and then, in the end, you can only go home with one of them. You can't decide which to pick, and anyway, the party is in full swing, so you stay, drink more, and then around dawn, you realize you are alone, your options are expired, the person you've been talking to for the last hour is long since asleep. You laugh at your own absurdity but even that doesn't help allay the sense of isolation and anguish. You wake up the next afternoon and its sadder than if nothing ever happened because something did... and you blew it. And hearing dear Hannah sat "Drink was never your problem, Mr. Shannon" is quite a comfort, as is the withered old poet lost in a grapple with his verse which will only ever be heard by whomever happens to be around when it's finished, but he doesn't care. As long as it's good. Now in the age of the internet we can all imagine all our work read and treasured by anonymous strangers (as opposed to existing only in a few Kinko copies, read only at open mikes by yourself, literary journal editorial offices by rejection slip-mailing interns, or no one, and all chance for notice dying as soon as your parents moved and threw all your old boxes away. Where could you find the strength to be a writer in that hellish environment of complete isolation?
You could be as the old gentlemen - it doesn't matter who hears it, as long as it's finished, and as long as it's good. Since in the end we're just looking for a reason to keep writing, some assurance we're not speaking only to ourselves (not even noticed enough to be forgotten), or that it doesn't matter even if we are, there's a goal now. Get so good that when someone does read your work in the future, it cracks their mind apart.
|"endurance is something blue devils respect"|
Few things are more boring than a sane artist. And of course, academia and the bourgeois are flooded with them. Not to rationalize, but in my opinion if you're an 'artist' and not down there in the sludgy flooded basement of your inner mansion, digging for monsters and jellyfish and risking being dragged under by monsters from the Id, then where are ya? In the living room having tea? A spot o' tea, guvna? Then you're not an artist - you're a 'craftsman' and/or a hack, i.e 'sane.'
Just try to lead one of these sane artists down the stairs and see how they fight to get back up, screaming in litigious terror.
Then there are the ones with completely clean basements, they have nothing left to dig for and so their writing moves from "fiction" or "non-fiction" into "spirituality" or "Self-help."
All of which is preface to saying Night of the Iguana comes from a messy basement, a star, director and writer all with messy basements, steeped in strange liquors. It's there in the shy, ashamed way Shannon can't even drink in front of the ladies, he has to take a bottle of the cart and sheepishly slink off to his room like Popeye ashamed to let Olive see how shaky he is with the spinach can opener. I've been there, and I've endured the hissing vibes in the eyes of women my own age as I walk down the street with hot babes half theirs... I've been victim of rumors, and shakes, and demons, but I've been saved by beautiful angels at my intervention. They fed me when my hands shook to much to lift a fork. Hannah Jelkes calls these moments examples of "broken barriers between people." It's when you're so vulnerable and sensitive you see the beauty and kindness of those who accept you as truly angelic --glowing and absolving. You have no wall to hide behind. "What is important," notes Hannah, "is that one is never alone." Yeah, booze, man, and Central, NJ, and being a writer. She gets it.
Thee same way a girl's attraction to a man turns him cocky, then needy when she's not into him anymore (due to his cockiness), fame makes mundane formalist status quo keepers out of once visionary artists, and turns them needy and hacky when fame flies from them as a result. Rather than prizing process all else, famous artists fall prey to to the addictive craving of attention, success, making it big, and letting it go to their head. While self-aggrandizing is a necessary thing for some artists to overcome blocks, eventually old Ego chokes all the pipes and the bullshit starts to rise and rise. Coprophiliac sycophants gather like hyenas in some mad night club nature show; the first line you cross is free but the costs rise until suddenly the limelight isn't over your head anymore, it's below your feet and all you're left with is a stamp on the back of your hand, now slowly washing away in the early morning rain like Roy Batty's tears.
|"Did someone call for a recitation?"|
Charlotte is madly in love with Shannon, promising him a job at her father's church and completely deluded and swept away in a girlish infatuation tide generated by boredom on the one hand, and the girlish sense of safety created by his being a 'born and bred' clergyman on the other. For his part, Shannon's conscience is so strict about messing around with an underage girl that he has no choice but to drink said conscience clean into oblivion. The line is sanity, honey, and he crosses it. Fellowes catches them one too many times in a clinch and threatens to have him fired from Blake's Tours. Shannon strands the tour bus near his old drinking grounds, tries to keep Fellowes' call to Corpus Christi, TX, from happening, way off in a suite of bungalows up in the hills above the beach, run by yet another female (played lustily by Ava Gardner) with an eye for defrocked Welsh priests. Brother, the heat is on! Literally as the hill is super steep and the sun hot enough to fry the minds and shaky lower intestines of some of the older ladies in the congregation.
Shit, man... and to see it all in color the first time was really nice. The TNT folks did a fine job. You could practically smell the coco de oro in the air (especially with what I was drinking at the time, 50/50 rum and orange juice). I managed to tape the entirety of a second showing and to see it a dozen times or more before finally seeing the b&w original. And now it just doesn't feel like the same movie. Still, now I'm sober so the tales of Hannah's few sexual experiences --one in the Nantucket movie theater, the hand job or whatever it was ("he was arrested, for molesting a minor / I told the police it was a Garbo picture.") and Shannon's mix of hostility during his panic attack and flashes of compassion and wisdom --has all lost a little of the magic I felt back in 1990. And it's easy to see why Williams wanted his go-to muse, Anna Magnani to play Maxine (like she did on Broadway). He wrote the role expressly for her, and--as she showed in her other William's-written vehicles The Rose Tattoo (1955) and The Fugitive Kind (1960)--Magnini's slightly-dowdy sexually super-needy persona might be manna for gay boys (Brando in Kind) and grinning idiots (ala Lancaster in Tattoo), but is terrifying for any straight men who's grown up and moved out of his parent's house. Magnani' brash 'to the rafters' dowdiness is terrifying while Gardner's beauty is apparent no matter how down she dresses. It's fine by me, of course, that Gardner is in Magnani's role. I feel suffocated by even a few minutes of her in The Rose Tattoo and that a gorgeous man like Brando would choose her over Joanne Woodward at her sexiest in Kind is, frankly, unconscionable. But so is the idea that shacking up with Gardner would in anyway be a consolation prize instead of sexless Deborah Kerr.
But that doesn't matter. She's a lifeline tossed to Shannon the way this movie was a lifeline tossed to me in my hour of woe. I took it, as did he. Drunks may be a lot of things, but they're no fools. Of course Even now my relationship to this film is strong, unbreakable, I quote it so often in this blog I don't even notice it anymore. My guitarist's South African mom has an accent like Deborah Kerr's, and she has the same 'beyond judgment' attitude that's startlingly progressive for those of us from more conventionally American suburban homes, and many a night I spent regaling her with stories I'd never even tell my own mother. She, not my parents, taught me how to tie a tie for work! My guitarist and I still talk in the rhythms of Nonno, the world's oldest living poet, "did they cross your palm with gold or silver, Hannah?!" It swims in our blood, in every fibre of our souls, like a bible.
|"there are worse things than chastity, Mr. Shannon"|
There's great anecdotes about the film, such as from Ava Gardner's autobiography (she remembers that Huston and Burton insisted there be a bar at both the bottom and top of the hill during shooting); Sue Lyon's remembrance that she would get dizzy from the fumes oozing out of Burton's pores during their intimate scenes together; and so forth. Maybe that's what interests me now that I'm sober. In black and white the film seems too polished and "classic", though on the other hand, so am I. Maybe we both need colorization; maybe we both need you, dear reader, to plunge into the cold water of direct experience before trundling back to pass out on the shore in the hot yellow sands below Ava's hillside retreat, before passing judgment on a man at the end of his rope who let himself be seduced by a girl under 20.
But when you're exhausted and worn out, lonesome, depressed, in depths of despair, at the end of your rope, then you're finally ready for to savor the nurturing succor of genius albeit bullshit rationalizations, to see the value of grasping onto poetry at the edge of death, and to marvel at Sue Lyon dancing in those short, hip-huggin' white shorts. In getting you back up, and so highly, Night of the Iguana is proof that in order to be lifted you must first be fallen, so fall hard.