I'LL WALK ON

A recently published book, Beckett: Photographs by François-Marie Banier, had its origins in 1978 when the photographer happened to be on vacation in Tangier and saw Samuel Beckett, the great dramatic poet of angst and stasis, walking along in shorts and sandals, carrying a shoulder bag and heading for the beach.

At first it seems that Banier more or less stalked Beckett, like a paparazzo, but somewhere along the line they became friends, and the book also contains photographs from the late 1980s of Beckett in Paris, in which Beckett is more complicit.


Those beach pictures do seem genuinely startling. We want to imagine Beckett, like his characters, in some small dark room, suffering for his art, or perhaps just suffering, certainly not going on vacation and sunning himself. And, of course, this is pathetically naïve of us. Many of those pictures confirm, what I suppose we always knew really, that even the greatest, most unworldly writers, spend part of their lives doing the same perfectly ordinary, mundane things as the rest of us.


In the end, however, I don’t think Banier completely demystifies Beckett. In pictures like the one above, Beckett shows, or at least the photographer reveals, that sometimes when he walks he does a pretty good job of looking like an authentic Beckettian figure.

And if Beckett looks a little tense and tentative in his walking, well perhaps he’s remembering the night in Paris in 1938 when he was walking with a group of friends and was approached by a pimp, offering his services. Beckett declined, in some insulting way it seems, since the pimp was so incensed he stabbed Beckett in the chest, perforated a lung and very nearly killing him. The pimp, called Prudent, went briefly to jail, but Beckett didn’t press charges, and by some accounts he later turned the events of that night into a comic anecdote.

James Knowlson, author of the Beckett biography Damned to Fame, recounts that well over 30 years later, he and Beckett were walking in the street near the old people’s home where Beckett was then living, when a man with a camera leapt out and took a couple of photographs of him. Beckett reacted as though he’d been stabbed.


Of course we don’t look to Beckett’s writing for tales of vigorous hiking and wanderlust and yet, poet of stasis as he may be, a couple of Beckettian walking moments spring immediately to mind. A late work for the stage called Quad I and II (above) consists largely of synchronized walking, performed by hooded, robed figures who create patterns as they move rapidly around a square, illuminated space.

Another occurs in Film, in which the protagonist, played by Buster Keaton, scuttles (I think that’s the right word, it’s rapid and shambling but it’s definitely a walk rather than a run) alongside what seems to be the longest, highest, most featureless wall in all of New York City. It was demolished shortly after the movie was made.


Keaton, rather proudly, used to claim that he never understood what the movie was about; then again he never asked. But it hardly matters. Given his onscreen persona: stone-faced but far from inexpressive, suffering, stoical, much abused, he was a “natural” Beckett hero.


In his own movies Keaton does plenty of walking that might well be thought of as Beckettian – “you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.” But my favorite bit of Keaton walking occurs at the start of The Navigator. Here’s Keaton’s own description of it, from a 1958 interview with George C Pratt, ‘The opening gag … is one of the most stolen gags that ever was done on the screen. I think I knew at one time of twenty-seven times it had been done by other companies. With us, the gag was to establish the fact that I was so helpless, that I went to call on the girl, and I came down and got in my car with a chauffeur and a footman. The footman wrapped a blanket wound my knees – a big, open Pierce-Arrow Phaeton – and drove across the street. That’s all. I got out to call on the girl. I asked the girl if she’d marry me and she said, “No,” and I come back down (to the car). The guy opened the door in the car for me, and I said, “No, I think the walk will do me good.” So I walked across the street with the car followin’ me, makin’ a U-turn.’



Keaton was an extraordinary physical actor, fascinated by what the body can do, and passionately interested in making it do all kinds of things it was never meant to. He was also intensely engaged with the relationship between bodies and machines, cars, boats and of course the locomotive in The General.


The picture above shows Keaton walking along a railroad track, and this being Keaton, and the movie being a comedy, we know that a train is about to come along. The picture below shows Harry Dean Stanton in Wim Wenders’ movie Paris Texas, and because this is a serious, glum, Germanic movie we equally know that a train won’t be coming along. I assume Wenders is well aware of the similarity of the two images.


I suppose one of the problems most of us have with real life is that we’re never quite sure whether we’re in a Buster Keaton comedy, a Wim Wenders existential road movie or, for that matter, a piece of Sam Beckett philosophical minimalism. We walk along not quite knowing where we’re heading, nor what, if anything, is about to hit us, but when something does, whether it’s a train, a bout of Germanic weltschmerz, or the realization that our mothers gave birth astride a grave, well, which ever movie we're in, it really doesn't come as much of a surprise.

GUADALAJARA WILL DO NICELY

I may be a Hollywood walker, but the fact is, I walk wherever I am. And when I’m in a new place, say Guadalajara, having been invited there for the Book Fair, and have a few hours to spare, I set off walking, with only the vaguest idea of where I’m going or where I’ll end up.

I guess this is what top psychogeographer Guy Debord called “locomotion without a goal,” abandoning my usual walking habits and letting the environment draw you into what he calls the “unities of ambiance” that ripple through any city.


I never think this is as fancy as it sounds. You walk down the street and come to a junction where you have to turn left or right. You look in both directions and you take the one that draws you. As for what draws you, well, it may be an interesting piece of architecture, a fine old tree, an open space, maybe a bar. Now, as readers of my books will know, I'm at least as obsessed with Volkswagen Beetles as I am with walking. So when I see street that has a Volkswagen Beetle in it I head right for that unity of ambiance.


In my native England, Beetles are close to extinction. Even in Los Angeles, my current home, you see fewer and fewer all the time. But in Mexico, where they continued manufacturing the Beetle (or vocho as it’s known locally) until 2003, there are still plenty to see. And so I walked the streets of Guadalajara guided by the presence or absence of Volkswagen Beetles.



I found myself in an area of the city called Jardines del Bosque: literally Forest Gardens. I didn’t know it at the time, but the layout of the neighborhood was designed by the great architect Luis Baragan. There were inevitable planning problems and the full extent of his design was never realized. Even so, to walk these streets is to find yourself in a wonderful mid-century suburb, or perhaps a theme park: houses with flat roofs, hints of streamline moderne, marble tile and walls of gorgeous, vibrantly colored stucco. And in front of some of those houses, fine Volkswagen Beetles.


I suspect I walked the streets with an idiotic grin on my face, drinking it all in, so many streets, so many curious architectural elements, so many Beetles. And the streets had amazing names: La Luna, Nebulosa, Atmosfera, Cometa, Orbita, Astros. I thought how impeccably cool it would be if people asked you where you lived and you could say, “At the corner of Astro and Orbit.”

The Beetles were amazing too. Some of them were old, verging on classic, a few were customized, one or two were absolutely pristine; but the vast majority were workaday cars, and really not that old. Even so, it is in the nature of the Beetle that however similar they may all look, no too are ever precisely the same. This is their glory.


It’s always hard to know how to end a walk. You feel you need a climax, a resolution, a journey’s end, a perfect moment. But these things don’t occur to order, and nothing’s worse than trying to force it and falsify one. So in this case, after a couple of hours walking I decided I’d had enough fun and headed back to the hotel by the most direct route. But then, as I was getting close to the hotel I came across a small, slightly shabby, but stylish apartment block: white painted brick, stone facings, balconies with angular wrought iron railings. Right away I noticed there was a cool red Beetle parked in the street out front; but then I saw there was another one inside the yard of the apartment block, a faded yellow one. Then I spotted a black one up on blocks, and another that had started out bright orange and was now multicolored as various panels had been replaced.


I was in a kind of ecstasy. I hung around for a while hoping the owner of the cars might appear, although I wasn’t sure I’d have said him other than “Vochos hermosos.” He never did appear. Only a ginger tomcat strolled languidly between the Beetles, and soon enough I went on my way. Even so, there’d been a moment there when I’d had the sense that the streets of Gudalajara, maybe the whole world, had been arranged specifically for my benefit and pleasure. And even though I knew it hadn’t, to have that feeling, however briefly, is one of the things that makes walking, and life, worthwhile.

SIGNS OF HOLLYWOOD

For the last seven years or so I’ve lived in Hollywood, at the very eastern edge, where, if you were a realtor, you might argue was actually part of Los Feliz, but you’ll get no such argument from me.

Naturally, Hollywood is where I do most of my walking. The fact that I live within easy strolling distance of Hollywood Boulevard, and even Sunset Boulevard, still gives me a bit of a buzz on certain days.

You can’t actually see the Hollywood sign from where I live, but any time I go walking in the neighborhood I’m guaranteed to get a sighting, although a lot of the streets around here have triangular, yellow warning signs that say “No access to the Hollywood sign.” But this is just a provocation. If THIS street here doesn’t have access, which street does? Simple answer, no street gives real access, in the sense of being able to go and examine the sign. Once you get within reach, all manner of cameras and warning sirens (and for all I know SWAT teams) swoop into action.


I don’t altogether understand why I feel so affectionate towards what is really a fairly crass and ugly bit of lettering, but a lot of people evidently feel the same way. As I write there’s a nail-biting end to a campaign to buy the land the sign is on and add it to Griffith Park, and preserve it for all eternity. Maybe we won’t need it quite that long.


Hollywood, of course, is a real place, not just a theme park and tourist attraction: a place with real gas stations, grocery stores and hospitals, but the moment you put Hollywood in the name of your business it becomes somehow different, less serious. Maybe that’s because Hollywood has become an adjective as well as a proper noun, so that to describe something as “Hollywood” is to condemn it as falsely glamorous, borderline sleazy, vaguely meretricious. This isn’t so bad if you’re running a nail salon or a jeans store or restaurant, but it still strikes me as a bit of a liability if you’re running, say, a dialysis center.


Of course I don’t only walk in Hollywood, I walk wherever I happen to be. I’m particularly enamoured of the cold, damp melancholy of the English seaside for instance, though I don’t get there very often.

The photograph above was taken in Great Yarmouth in Norfolk. You might argue they haven’t got the typeface quite right, but that would be nitpicking. Even here in East Anglia (not quite Joseph Conrad and W.G. Sebald country, but near enough) the name Hollywood still has a currency and the resonance. To be able to walk there on a daily basis makes me feel oddly, and no doubt meretriciously, glamorous.

HOPPER IN HOLLYWOOD

I walked down to Hollywood Boulevard to see Dennis Hopper getting his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; 11.30, Friday morning. March 26th, 2010.

I’ve always thought that the placing of the stars, on Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street, is a strange combination of the fiercely hierarchical and the utterly random. Why exactly is James Brown’s star on Vine outside Bed Bath and Beyond? Still, for whatever reason, Hopper’s is perfectly placed right outside the Egyptian Theatre. This is as good as it gets; classier and more iconic than getting one outside Grauman’s Chinese or the Kodak Theatre. Those places are tourist spots. The Egyptian, one of the homes of the American Cinematheque, is for true movie lovers.

The Hopper ceremony was much reported in advance, since he’s simultaneously dying of prostate cancer and fighting (or rather refusing to fight, because his doctor says he’s too ill) a bitter and ugly divorce, from Victoria, his wife of 14 years.

Years back I saw Hopper and his wife in the Borders bookstore in Santa Monica. I’m sure I wasn’t the only on e who recognized him but nobody approached. He was looking at the new titles, the serious hardback fiction, and the woman he was with – V I now know – was standing beside him bored and restless, and eventually she said to him, “I’m going to look in the visual section.” Dennis gave a long-suffering grimace.

I’d never been to one of these unveiling events before, though I’d seen plenty of photographs. They always looked like modest celebrations; a photo op with a few dedicated fans and officials, and since the star is usually being placed in the middle of a narrow sidewalk there’s not much room for a crowd anyway.

As I approached the Egyptian, I could see from a block away, there were maybe a dozen film crews, on both side of the street, some of them raised up on stepladders. A crowd of onlookers filled the sidewalk. I joined them. Subsequent reports said hundreds of people were there, but I’d have guessed it was way less than that.


A temporary metal fence had been put in place to stop the crowd spilling from the sidewalk into the traffic, and it was very tempting to perch on top of the fence to get a better view of things. There was a single cop policing the event and a large part of his job involved telling people not to do precisely that. He was standing in the road, and traffic had to swerve to avoid him, but if they swerved too wide, it was also his job to yell at them and tell them to stay in lane.

Even though the sidewalk was full of people, it hadn’t been closed off and some passersby insisted on their right to walk right through the crush of people. One or two baffled pedestrians saw how just difficult that would be and plaintively asked the cop what they should do. He suggested, with barely suppressed rage, that they might walk on the other damn side of the street. This seemed to strike the would-be walkers as a baffling new concept.

But the real action wasn’t on the sidewalk, it was on the forecourt of the Egyptian Theater. That’s where the invited guests and VIPs were. They all looked like Hollywood somebodies though I couldn’t put any names to faces. The men were older, favoring grey pony tales, loud patterned shirts, suits of fashionably eccentric cut. The women, with few exceptions, were young and hot.


But then I saw my first celeb, David Lynch, looking EXACTLY the way you’d want David Lynch to look – the thick white hair, the sunglasses, the white shirt - tieless but buttoned at the neck. And there was another one: Dwight Yoakum in his trademark cowboy hat, then Viggo Mortensen looking ruggedly saturnine, and somebody shouted that they’d seen “Nicholson” meaning Jack, but I never caught sight of him.

Someone came pushing through the crowd, a short, soberly dressed Mexican with a pitted face, dragging a plump middle-aged woman behind him. He didn’t seem angry or threatening but he did seem very determined to get through the crowd, and then I realized it was Danny Trejo – star of the Robert Rodriguez trailer “Machete.” Will it surprise you if I say he looks much taller on screen?

Hopper arrived early, a few minutes before the appointed time. People do that in LA. A huge yelping cheer went up and I joined in. How could you not? He looked frail, had people to help him walk, and there was a bandage on his forehead, but the vibe, the smile, the wolfishly sensitive face, that was all pure Hopper.

There were speeches. I hadn’t expecting that. A producer, name of Mark Canton, declared that Dennis Hopper was the coolest man on the planet, and at that moment, who would have argued? Hopper himself said, “Everything I've learned, I've learned from Hollywood,” which you might think makes for a rather patchy education, but again this wasn’t a moment to quibble.

He also explained the bandage on his head. It was a paparazzi-related walking accident. He was walking outside his house and heard somebody call his name. He thought it was somebody he knew so he turned around to look, but it was just some cameraman. Turning around was enough to make him lose his footing and he’d fallen over and hit his head on the ground. "I know you have a tough job," he said, "but maybe sometimes you should be a little more sensitive." A fully fit Hopper would surely have reacted way more vehemently.


Having read Nathanael West’s “Day Of The Locust” we’re supposed to find Hollywood crowds vile and predatory, but I couldn’t square that with the people who were there for Hopper that day. Of course we’d come to gawk. This was perhaps our last chance to see a member of an endangered species, but they (we) seemed perfectly good humored and benign. We were enthusiastic and admiring. The warmth for Hopper was real and palpable.


When I got home I turned to the end of “Day Of The Locust.”
“He could see a change come over them as soon as they had become part of the crowd. Until they reached the line, they looked diffident, almost furtive, but the moment they had become part of it, they turned arrogant and pugnacious. It was a mistake to think them harmless curiosity seekers. They were savage and bitter, especially the middle aged and the old, and had been made so by boredom and disappointment.”

Well, you’ve said a mouthful there, Nathanael. I know that times and social attitudes change, but today it’s hard not to read that as self-serving snobbery. There on Hollywood Boulevard, it was hard to imagine the kind of conflagration West imagines in his novel. For better or worse, “The Burning of Los Angeles” will have to come from other sources than movie fans.