THE
TERRY SOUTHERN QUESTION
Before the New Journalism of Tom Wolfe and Gay
Talese, before the absurd cinema of Stanley Kubrick,
before the Brave Gonzo World of Hunter S. Thompson,
Saturday Night Live and National
Lampoon, there was the legendary Terry
Southern—author of the novels Candy
(co-written with Mason Hoffenberg) and The Magic
Christian, and screenwriter of Dr.
Strangelove and Easy Rider.
The power of Southern's satirical prose made him
the only wordsmith of the '60s who could have won
a word fight with Lenny Bruce, but what distinguishes
Southern's career is that these works, along with
two other novels, Flash and Filigree
and Blue Movie, a collection of short
stories and journalism, Red Dirt Marijuana,
and five other major films were all released between
1958 and 1970—after which Southern virtually
disappeared. In fact, he continued writing for the
next twenty-five years, publishing four more books
and releasing at least one film credited to him,
but the results never came close to the work of
his great '60s period and are all forgotten.
However,
as evidence of renewed interest in Terry Southern's
work, in the second half of the '90s all four of
his aforementioned novels have been republished
by Grove Press, and a biography of Southern by Canadian
film critic Lee Hill is forthcoming from Avon Books
later this year.
"In
1967, The Beatles put Southern on the famous album
cover of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts
Club Band along with others, alive and legendary,
of the Alternative Establishment. Terry is tucked
in behind Edgar Allan Poe and Lenny Bruce. What
a fortuitous and telling placement —next to
the master of the macabre on the one hand and the
great practitioner of black humor on the other."
—George
Plimpton
Introduction to the Citadel Underground Edition
of Red Dirt Marijuana, 1990
One
night back in November 1989, I drove up to East
Canaan in northern Connecticut to have dinner at
the home of Terry Southern and his companion of
twenty-five years, Gail Gerber. I had known Terry
since meeting him via William Burroughs at the Bunker
in 1978. And I was a great fan of his work.
He
came out of the house to greet me with a bear hug.
It was the first time I had seen him on his own
turf. We went into the living room. There was snow
outside, which made the interior of the pre-Revolutionary
War house, complete with a roaring fire in the grate,
all the more welcoming. We sat down and started
smoking marijuana and drinking vodka in earnest.
I told him that I wanted him to tell me how, where
and when he had written each of his works. Grooving
with my proposal, Terry started describing life
in Geneva with his first wife, Carol, in 1958, writing
his first novel, Flash and Filigree,
in his early thirties. Now he was sixty-three. Terry
had put on a lot of weight and had grey shoulder-length
hair, but as he spoke of his early work the fat
seemed to melt away, and for a moment I caught a
glimpse of the ruggedly handsome young man who looked
like Richard Burton in his prime on the back cover
of Flash and Filigree.
We
had been having a wonderful time for half an hour,
when Gail announced that dinner was served. I followed
Terry into the dining room, carrying my tape recorder,
notebook and glass. In the dining room were a beautiful
antique table, an exquisitely designed meal and
flickering candles. "You'll find we know how
to entertain our guests here at Blackberry Manor,"
Terry remarked. Then, turning to Gail, he quipped,
"Vic thinks it's an elaborate setup for some
weird intellectual sting."
Once
seated, I started analyzing Terry's career via a
financial lens, leading him to object, "What
you are failing to realize, Victor, is that we're
speaking within a framework of my never having any
notion at all that there was any money to be made
in writing. You're thinking of it as though my view
is that of some professional, career-minded writer.
I don't think writing is calculated. I don't think
people write because they think, 'Oh well, I'm going
to be published and then I'm going to be published
again and again and again, and I'll attain my identity
as a writer.' I have never thought of writing as
an income. You're assuming that I was doing it for
some kind of monetary response. It was all much
less conscious and calculated. Are you saying that
you can't comprehend creative work that isn't done
to try to please somebody outside yourself? You
seem to be, correct me if I'm wrong, ruling out
any comprehensible stimuli other than psychological
peer-group approval power, or just straightforward
money. You don't think that some of these things
just happen almost on the level of, say, doodling
when you're on the phone? Kafka's best writing is
in his Diaries, I think, and he didn't
want them to be seen by anyone."
"I
don't know, Terry," I replied, "all I
can say is people want to know why they aren't reading
books by you anymore," at which point he cut
me off with a terse, "Oh, is this what this
interview is about, the artist manqué?"
The blood froze in the veins of my neck. Everything
happened in slow motion. Suddenly I was studying
the candlelight flickering on the surface of the
red wine, wondering if I might have to leave
in the next five minutes! That's how
pissed off Terry was that I slapped him in the face
with the fact that he hadn't written a single piece
of work in the last eighteen years that had entertained
people the way he had in the '60s.
Twenty-five
years earlier, in the halcyon days of
1964, Terry Southern was the most famous writer
in America. Candy was No. 1 on the
New York Times bestseller list.
Dr. Strangelove was No. 1 at the box
office. As Norman Mailer wrote in his famous essay
on the 1964 Republican Convention, "Our country
was in disease... Our best art was Dr. Strangelove
and Naked Lunch, Catch 22;
Candy was our heroine." He was also the most
appreciated by his peers. "Terry Southern is
the most profoundly witty writer of our generation,"
wrote Gore Vidal. "Terry Southern writes a
clean, mean, coolly deliberate, and murderous prose,"
attested Norman Mailer. "Terry Southern is
the illegitimate son of Mack Sennett and Edna St.
Vincent Millay," added Kurt Vonnegut. "Terry
Southern was one of the first and best of the new
wave of American writers, defining the cutting edge
of black comedy," concluded Joseph Heller.
Rich,
generous to a fault, and possessing a seemingly
endless stream of ideas, he was the Lenny Bruce
of the literary set, an American Graham Greene for
the '60s. He flew with the coolest members of the
jet set from Los Angeles to New York, London, Paris
and Rome. Never seen in public without his black
wayfarer shades, Terry became the minstrel of hip.
The Beatles put him on the cover of Sgt. Pepper.
He counted among his friends Charlie Parker, Samuel
Beckett, Jackson Pollock, Robert Frank, Thelonious
Monk, Ringo Starr, T. S. Eliot, Stanley Kubrick,
Christopher Isherwood, Robin Williams, Lenny Bruce,
Andy Warhol, Brian Jones, Keith Richards, Mick Jagger,
Anthony Burgess, Jane Fonda, William Burroughs,
Allen Ginsberg and Jean Genet.
At
root, Terry was a satirist. His themes were the
big ones—sex and death. According to the novelist
William Styron, "One of the reasons we hit
it off so well together was that we both viewed
the Christian religion—at least insofar as
we had experienced its puritanical rigors—as
a conspiracy to deny its adherents their fulfillment
as human beings. It magnified not the glories of
life but the consciousness of death, exploiting
humanity's innate terror of the timeless void. High
among its prohibitions was sexual pleasure. In contemplating
Americans stretched on the rack of their hypocrisy
as they tried to reconcile their furtive adulteries
with their churchgoing pieties, Terry laid the groundwork
for some of his most biting and funniest satires."
Profiled
in Life magazine that year, Terry
came across as a determined crusader of the counterculture.
"The important thing in writing is the capacity
to astonish." he said. "Not shock—shock
is a worn-out word—but astonish. The world
has no grounds for complacency. Where you find something
worth blasting, I want to blast it." Asked
if he was for or against America's intervention
in Vietnam and how he thought the conflict should
be resolved, Terry gave an example of what he meant:
"'Intervention' would seem to me rather weak
semantics for the bombing of civilians—the
use of napalm and herbicides... the destruction
of villages, schools, hospitals, roads, bridges,
crops... the massacre of women and children. I should
have thought a somewhat stronger term—like
'barbarism,' 'rape' or 'pillage'—more correct.
"As
for how would I 'resolve the conflict,' there is
only one conceivable way —and that is, with
President Johnson at the fore, quickly, silently,
and with great stealth, to slither out, on our stomachs.
Anything less would hardly be in character with
our grotesquely reptilian behavior, and our very
sick motives."
I
see Terry as the great, tragic athlete of writing,
the Babe Ruth, the Ali, because he was a natural,
the real thing, as blessed in his talents as they
were in theirs. And, like them, once the players
in his field saw a way of making a lot of money
out of him, Terry's goose was, in a way, already
cooked.
Up
until 1962, nothing he had written had made much
money. He was writing regularly for the big magazines,
and international interest in Candy
was growing. Then, one day as he was prowling around
his recently acquired pre-Revolutionary War house
in Connecticut, he got a phone call from Stanley
Kubrick, who had read The Magic Christian.
Kubrick invited Terry to join him in London and
help him rewrite the screenplay for Dr. Strangelove.
It turned out to be the most seductive introduction
to screenwriting possible. The producers put Terry
up in a first-class London hotel, from which each
morning at 4 a.m.
Kubrick would pick him up in a large, chauffeur-driven
Rolls Royce. For the next two hours, as they drifted
through the blackness on their way to Shepperton
Studios, Terry would find himself grooving in a
rosy creative glow in the back of the warm and luxuriously
appointed car. Terry took apart and reassembled
the script, transforming it into the classic black
comedy of the decade, perhaps of all time. Best
of all, Terry would see words he had written that
morning at that night's rushes, and in the final
cut. As Terry explained to an interviewer in 1972,
"Compared to other forms of writing, screenwriting
is highly rewarding, in the financial
sense —and of course when things go as they
should it is the most extremely satisfying creatively
of all the forms, because it is much stronger
than prose."
In
1963, Terry edited (in collaboration with Alex Trocchi
and Dick Seaver) the anthology Writers in Revolt,
a collection of the best revolutionary writing since
World War II. Then, as if he'd done his duty on
the Quality Lit front, he abandoned the page for
the screen, throwing himself into a veritable orgy
of screenwriting. From 1964 to 1967, he rewrote
scripts of The Loved One, The Cincinnati
Kid, Casino Royale, The Collector
and Barbarella. Though they all made
money, in some cases a lot of money, none of these
works astonished anybody. Perhaps Terry had already
lost sight of his original precept—to blast
smugness, to astonish. Or perhaps he was just in
tune with the zeitgeist. Because in 1967—the
Summer of Love—he pulled it all back together
again for another annus mirabilis.
First he published Red Dirt Marijuana,
which may not have had the extraordinary commercial
impact of Candy but became an instant
classic of New Journalism. That summer, Terry was
working with Jane Fonda and Roger Vadim on Barbarella
at Cinecita outside Rome, when he bumped into Peter
Fonda. Out of their conversations grew the chance
to write perhaps his penultimate work, the screenplay
of Easy Rider.
Through
1967 and 1968, Terry worked with Fonda, who would
produce and star in the film, and Dennis Hopper,
who would direct and star in it, thrashing out the
story he wrote into a script. He stayed on the picture
through the shooting and editing. In the introduction
to the published screenplay of Easy Rider,
which is credited to Fonda, Hopper and Southern,
Frederick Tutten observed: "Easy Rider
is a conglomerate of so many basic impulses and
myths in our culture that even while you move along
with it, wonderingly, there is an abiding sense
of a familiar terrain—the classic nineteenth-century
American landscape, a violent pastoral...
"Much
of the film's ebullience is in keeping with the
image of this violent/pastoral America. Easy
Rider has its origins in the fabric of
the action-journey myth of our culture: Whitman's
space-time flights in Song of Myself,
Woody Guthrie's hobo-folk mystique in Bound for
Glory.... The two riders in the film belong
to no bike pack: They line up with the American
pantheon of paired comrade heroes: Deerslayer and
Chingachgook, Ishmael and Queequeg, Huck Finn and
Jim, Sal Paradise and crazy Dean Moriarty of Kerouac's
On the Road."
When
it was released in 1970, Easy Rider
was greeted internationally as "a lyric, tragic
song of the road, a bold, courageous statement of
life seldom matched in motion pictures, one of the
most powerful movies ever made." And Terry's
script was nominated for an Oscar. His final hit,
the novel Blue Movie, published in
1970, eerily wrote into being the sexual ethos of
the 1970s that ultimately led to AIDS, once and
for all putting to rest the corpse of the counterculture.
From
1958 to 1970, Terry was the champ. No one else hit
such big shots and kept them coming.
Terry
Southern's work is embedded in the only
tradition which has so far proved indigenous to
the American culture, the tradition of romantic
agony, which was in the process of being overhauled
by Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs,
as well as Terry Southern. "He invented his
own idiom out of the '50s and '60s, his own language,"
marveled a brilliant contemporary, the screenwriter
Buck Henry. "Garcia Marquez meets Dwight Eisenhower.
It was a whole new chapter in black comedy and farce."
Indeed. Hunter Thompson's Fear and Loathing in
Las Vegas rises from the pages of The Magic
Christian. Terry's characters become
part of our reference banks. His most memorable
scenes, from the hunchback trying to enter Candy
with his hump to Slim Pickens in Strangelove
riding the bomb to its destination like a bucking
bronco, are iconic.
In
1970, Terry stood on the brink of a new decade for
which he appeared to be the perfect commentator.
After all, it wasn't just that his fourth novel,
Blue Movie, was published and that
Easy Rider was in theaters across
America. The first film he produced, End of the
Road, starring James Earl Jones and Stacy Keach,
and the film of his book The Magic Christian,
starring Peter Sellers and Ringo Starr, were also
in general release. Meanwhile, Candy
was being filmed, and all his books were in print
and selling briskly. A number of them were already
considered classics. They were also widely appreciated
outside of the United States, particularly in England.
If
one had had to bet on who was going to have a better
output in the 1970s, Terry Southern or William Burroughs,
one would have said Terry. And there was really
no way we could have known how wrong we would have
been, because Terry himself could not have seen
what was bearing down on him at the dawn of the
new decade. According to Terry's biographer, Lee
Hill, "The last twenty-five years of Southern's
life, 1970 to 1995, are a frustrating puzzle of
grand projects and dead ends. The great mystery
surrounding Southern's post-sixties career is why
he had such difficulty in getting projects into
production. There isn't a simple answer. Some say
it was due to his excessive drinking and use of
recreational drugs. Some point to a grey-listing
of Southern because of his left-wing political activism.
Still others argue that his brand of humor had fallen
out of fashion."
It
was not until the mid-1980s that Terry was able
to get hold of government files on him through the
then-new Freedom of Information Act. From these
papers he would learn that the IRS harassment of
him as early as 1966 had led to his being blacklisted
as a Hollywood screenwriter. (All the films he wrote
after 1966 were independent or foreign productions.)
Furthermore, when President Nixon won his landslide
victory in 1972, he instructed the FBI and IRS to
put the heat on numerous artistic figures who had
been outspoken against him or his previous administration.
This was Nixon's hit list. Andy Warhol, one of its
subjects, was able to pay the fines charged him
and protect himself with a team of lawyers and tax
accountants. Terry, who had made and spent a fortune
in the '60s without keeping records of his expenses,
had managed to hold onto only a tiny amount of what
he had earned and was a sitting duck. According
to Terry, as a result of IRS harassment, in 1972
he ended up in thrall to the IRS for the rest of
his life.
For
the next twenty-three years, he gave the impression
of being constantly on the verge of making a comeback
with a great new something, but the product that
made its way to the consumer was a travesty of what
was expected from a writer of his caliber. He was
given two opportunities to write classic texts on
the Rolling Stones, first from the perspective of
touring with them, second to accompany a collection
of the great Michael Cooper's photographs. In both
cases, he produced an extremely thin text. Considering
Terry's long-term relationship with the Stones,
dating back to 1963 and continuing into the '90s,
and his deep insights into the relationships between
them, which could have led to a wonderful evocation
of an age and its spirit, these books were great
disappointments. Worse still was his long-awaited
fifth novel, Texas Summer, published
in 1991. In this book, Terry took the great short
stories that made up half of Red Dirt Marijuana,
wrote some connecting material between them, weakening
them in the process, and published the resulting
travesty as his "new" work.
The
writer's mechanism—a combination of the precision
of his brain, the emotional engine of his heart,
his physical energy and psychic fuel—is delicate.
Terry had lived large, worked hard, partied harder,
and been a big drinker and daily user of Dexamyl
(an amphetamine widely prescribed by American doctors
in the '60s as an antidepressant). However, it is
facile to write him off as a victim of substance
abuse. American artists of all kinds have long histories
of alcohol and drug addiction. Terry's friend William
Burroughs had been a heroin addict for fifteen years,
and an alcoholic all his adult life. Yet in 1974,
at age sixty, he embarked on a highly successful,
new period of his career. One has to look more carefully
into the pivots of Terry's life to discover the
real reasons for his dramatic halt in 1970.
According
to George Plimpton, Terry's most striking
characteristic, already in place as early as 1953,
was the way he spoke. "Texas born," Plimpton
wrote, "he developed a curious, mock high English
complete with little harrumphs (What? What?)
delivered in fits and starts, with words often abbreviated
in hipster style (fab for fabulous)
and marked with qualifying endearments such as 'Tip
Top Tony' for Tony Richardson, the movie director—very
unique and not unlike how Goofy would sound if born
an earl." Add to this the famous T. S. Eliot
quote Southern used as the epigraph for his fourth
novel, Blue Movie, "Poetry is
not an expression of personality, it is an escape
from personality; it is not an outpouring of emotion,
it is a suppression of emotion—but, of course,
only those who have personality and emotions can
ever know what it means to want to get away from
those things." There was also the change in
appearance he went through from 1958, when he appeared
on the jacket of Flash and Filigree
looking like a young Richard Burton, to 1967, when
he had put on a good deal of weight and camouflaged
his face with long hair, a beard and thick, black-framed
glasses. Then you begin to realize that you are
dealing with an intensely private man, who once
told me, "You must keep in mind that on no
account must we destroy the mystery of my existence.
Otherwise I'm dead."
In
my opinion, it was not the IRS that stopped Terry
in his tracks, or the booze and pills, though they
certainly contributed. I think it was a series of
betrayals from within his own camp that hurt that
delicate mechanism.
For
example, when Candy was published
in America in 1964, it went to No. 1 on the New
York Times bestseller list, where it
stayed for eleven weeks, spending almost a year
on the list, subsequently selling five million copies
around the world. Terry did not get one cent of
the royalties, approximately one million dollars
in 1960 (ten million today). According to Terry:
"What happened with Candy was
a shocking and scandalous thing. They didn't tell
us this, but when something is published in Europe
but not in England or the U.S., in order to hold
an American copyright you have to acquire what's
called 'artificial copyright' which lasts for six
months, and then even if a section of it is published
in a magazine someplace, you have to renew this
copyright every six months. So Candy,
which was originally published in Paris in 1959,
was not protected by copyright in the U.S. The publisher
at Putnam knew that and so they had a clause in
small print saying that if an unauthorized edition
should appear within six months of theirs, they
would withhold all royalties until assessment of
damages. And an unauthorized mass paperback edition
did appear. So the book's original publisher in
Paris at the Olympia Press, Maurice Girodias, rushed
over to New York and made some kind of deal for
himself while the book was still number one. But
the pirated edition caused Putnam to rush into print
with their paperback edition, and meanwhile, because
this happened before the six-month period stipulated
in the contract was up, they withheld all royalties."
Another
example: In 1970, Terry gave his "good
friend" Dennis Hopper a screenwriting credit
on Easy Rider. Because Hopper was
the film's director and the Writer's Guild had firm
rules against a director or producer leaning on
a writer for such a credit, this was the only way
Hopper could have gotten a writing credit on the
film and published screenplay. In 1972, when Hopper
was a millionaire several times over from the film's
profits and Terry was fighting for his financial
life, Terry, who had been screwed out of the single
point in the film he was originally supposed to
have, did a very uncharacteristic thing. Dropping
the mask of the Earl of Goofy, he wrote Hopper a
letter, touching on his problems and asking him,
virtually begging him, if he couldn't see his way
to giving Terry one point of the film's huge profits.
While this point would have hardly made a noticeable
dent in Hopper's fortune, it would have solved all
of Terry's problems with the IRS, and probably gone
some way towards saving his creative life. Hopper
did not even have the courtesy to reply.
However
tough a person you are—and Terry was plenty
tough and proved it by his awesome ability to get
up from losing a million dollars on Candy
without losing his sense of humor—there comes
a point at which you run out of ammunition or new
ways to evade those forces that are trying to defeat
you, whatever they might be. It happened to Ernest
Hemingway in the '60s. It happened to Richard Brautigan
in the '70s. Writing, after all, is largely a question
of character once you've got your basic chops.
Unlike
Truman Capote or Tennessee Williams, who drank and
drugged themselves to death, unlike J. D. Salinger,
who went into seclusion, Terry never complained
and never explained. He was a writer, and, as Burroughs
used to remind us, writers must write. Terry stayed
true to his calling, keeping a regular schedule—getting
up around 10:30 a.m.,
reading the paper and drinking coffee, starting
to work around noon. Trying to maintain the habits
and methods that had been so successful, he kept
the car Gail drove him around in equipped with Scotch
tape, pencil sharpeners and lights for night work,
a poignant reminder of those magic rides to Shepperton
Studios with Kubrick back in 1962.
After
a regular day's work, he would usually drink and
get high by himself, staying up until the early
hours of the morning watching CNN, taking notes.
According to his son, Nile: "People rarely
came to visit, but even when the house was without
guests, in the wee hours, it would often sound like
a 'right rave-up' was going on. Terry would have
the TV blasting, stereo going on and off, he'd be
singing, shouting out lines of dialogue or Britishisms
like 'Very well then' or 'Two can play at that game,
Mister!' He constantly kept fires roaring in the
house, sometimes maintaining four at once. His favorite
way to revive them was with kerosene, and after
a few drinks, he would let the flames dance away
up from the fireplace..."
There
is something both sad and beautiful in this image
of Terry foraging around his house, roaring with
laughter, talking back to the television set, trying
again to hear the biting satiric prose that had
once flowed from his brain onto the page and out
into the world.