by Lee Hill
Despite a penchant for goofing off, Southern continued to work on scripts. The flame that had been ignited by Dr. Strangelove still kept his shoulder to the wheel. With Nile’s friend Mark Amerika, Southern worked on a treatment for a Barbarella sequel. He also toyed with an adaptation of Modern Baptists, a critically acclaimed novel by James Wilcox, a young writer with a distinctive satiric voice.
Toward the end of 1989, Hawkeye fell apart. One morning Una and Harry woke up to discover they were virtually bankrupt. Hawkeye’s capable secretary-treasurer, Cindy Sims, had stolen from the company. Nilsson was forced to borrow money from friends to sort out the mess. Eventually Sims was charged with embezzlement and served three years in prison.
“Cindy Sims was supposed to be doing the income tax,” recalls Gail. “Terry’s Hawkeye checks were always late, and his car, which was supposed to be paid [for], was repossessed. She stole Harry’s money and went up the river. In the meantime, Terry’s lawyer tried to get in touch with Harry’s lawyer, but they wouldn’t return the phone calls…. Harry just sort of abandoned Terry. Not only did Terry owe $30,000 in income tax, which I paid off, but another $40,000 in penalties.”
The brief financial respite provided by Hawkeye went up in smoke. By 1993, Southern would be in another tax mess. Some of it was due to Sims’s failure to deduct taxes during Southern’s Hawkeye employment. The IRS also decided to tax Southern’s residuals from Easy Rider and Dr. Strangelove. In total, according to Gerber, Southern had to pay back about $70,000 in taxes. This bill was finally settled after his death.
Aside from countless bad reviews for The Telephone (which did, however, enjoy a popular afterlife as a video rental), Hawkeye had done nothing to resurrect Terry in the eyes of his fans. Between 1985 and 1990, Southern’s published output amounted to the liner notes for Marianne Faithfull’s Strange Weather, produced by Hal Wilner, and a commentary on Iran-Contra for the Nation.
In February 1989, Southern entered Sloan-Kettering to undergo major surgery for stomach cancer. The night after his surgery, Mike Golden, a New York writer and screenwriter, came to visit Terry. Golden had been trying to reach Southern for months for a story he was preparing for New York Writer on Maurice Girodias. Out of the blue, he was summoned by Southern to the hospital. Over the next four hours, the two men bonded and Terry got a lot off his chest. Golden couldn’t bear to hear the tapes because of their intensity and felt that given Southern’s postop manic state it wouldn’t be fair to quote him. Eventually Golden rescheduled the interview. Portions of it ran in places like Reflex magazine, Creative Screenwriter, and the Paris Review. Golden represented a generation of writers who had discovered Southern’s work as teenagers in the sixties and seventies. Although publishers and editors in New York had consigned Southern to oblivion, the likes of Golden, Bruce Wagner, Mark Leyner, Michael Tolkin, Darius James, and others demonstrated that he was still relevant to a grassroots constituency.
When Southern got out of the hospital, he began collaborating with cartoonist R. O. Blechman on Billionaire’s Ball, a screenplay inspired by the life of Howard Hughes. He also landed a gig to teach at Sundance’s Screenwriters Lab that summer.
Southern in addition began a trip down memory lane by assisting in the preparation and publication of Blinds and Shutters, a limited-edition book devoted to the photography of Michael Cooper, who died in 1973 of a heroin overdose. Perry Richardson, an enthusiastic Englishman in his thirties, was the editor. With the assistance of Michael’s son Adam, he had assembled and cataloged thousands of Cooper’s photos; many of them had never appeared in print before. Each book in the 2,000-copy edition was housed in a salamander-colored box. A sliding blind on the box’s cover contained a photograph unique to that copy. The editions were signed by many of Cooper’s friends and subjects such as Paul McCartney, Keith Richards, Sandy Lieberson, Allen Ginsberg, and many others. Richardson had also compiled tributes and reminiscences of Cooper and his swinging sixties heyday. Southern helped arrange contacts and wrote a lot of the text for the ambitious project.
Richardson and Southern had met through Nilsson when Blinds and Shutters was still in its early stages. Nilsson helped underwrite some of Richardson’s initial expenses and introduced him to Genesis/Hedley, a small press that had put out I Me Mine, a similar limited-edition project for George Harrison.
“Terry was a constant source of inspiration,” says Richardson, “and I don’t think the book would have happened without him. It might have happened, but without the degree of quality and detail that we managed. The publishers at one point wanted to just do a book of full-page photographs and we had to argue that it had to be done as a scrapbook, which was the original concept.”
During the six years it took Richardson to get Blinds and Shutters published, the two men became close friends. Like many of the younger friends Southern made in the later years of his life, Richardson saw Terry as a kind of hip role model.
“Terry never in my experience denigrated anyone,” recalls Richardson. “If he had a criticism of anybody it was always made [as a suggestion that the person] could do better. I was so bowled over by the extent of his output…the number of scripts that he completed, the number of drafts, the number of outlines, essays—the quantity was astonishing. All of this—even though he wrote every day—was a symptom of his life…. One very striking aspect of his situation was that he was not as widely recognized as he should be. I found it extraordinary that although he was commissioned by so many different producers, including characters like Mike Nichols and other substantial figures in Hollywood, not one of his scripts had been produced. End of the Road he had a lot to do with himself. Although he managed to hold on to the house which was so big and so wonderful, he was barely making money.
“Harry Nilsson at that time was a real benefit to him. Other people were as well…but none of it seemed to bother Terry. It was secondary to what he was doing. What was important was the work he was writing and his life. It was only later that it really started to wear on him.”
Richardson believes Southern’s terrible reputation as a wild drunk and druggie was based on Southern’s occasional public appearances. Terry loved to come into town for a binge, explains Richardson, but few people saw him when he was in East Canaan writing.
“I don’t think Terry was trying to take anyone in with the Grand Guy thing,” said Richardson. “Obviously it was a role to some extent, but it was also what he was. Of course, he got frustrated, depressed, and angry, but he always knew that was not how he wanted to be. It was certainly secondary to him when set against how great life is and how wonderful people are.”
Southern responded to Richardson partly because he was English. Although he hadn’t been back to London for some time (Gail had recently gone over to London to attend a summer teaching workshop), he was an unrepentant Anglophile in many ways. One of Southern’s favorite films was Dead of Night, the anthology film of ghost stories, which became a late-night movie favorite. In the eighties, Southern watched the BBC adaptation of Brideshead Revisited every time it reran, and admired Dennis Potter’s Singing Detective when it aired on PBS. Richardson was also amused by Southern’s fondness for The House of Eliott, a quaint series about two women who run a dress shop in the twenties.
The work that Southern did on Blinds and Shutters, which was launched in the fall of 1989 with a big party organized by Earl McGrath, was sincere and heartfelt. Clearly a part of Southern was still living in the England of the fifties and sixties. However, Blinds and Shutters was not without its drawbacks. According to Richardson, Bill Wyman, one of the contributors, blocked plans to publish a trade edition of the expensive book. It became pricey curio priced at $600 a copy (the eternally cash-poor Southern sold his complimentary copy to a book dealer).
Near the end of the eighties, Southern, Burroughs, and Grauerholz heard that David Cronenberg was seriously considering making a film based on Naked Lunch. Unlike the others who had tried to tackle the book, Cronenberg was not a marginal figure i
n the film community. The Toronto-born director had made a series of films—Scanners, The Dead Zone, The Fly, and Dead Ringers—that successfully incorporated Burroughs’s imagery and philosophy. Southern was a particular fan of Dead Ringers, a breathtaking tragedy about twin gynecologists in love with the same woman. With this film, Cronenberg had successfully transcended the horror genre that critics and studio heads had tried to pigeonhole him in. Now in collaboration with English producer Jeremy Thomas, the Canadian auteur was seriously developing Naked Lunch as his next project.
Grauerholz was not sure of Cronenberg’s plans for the adaptation, but he could introduce Terry to the director and see if they made a connection.
“Terry came at his own expense from Connecticut to Toronto for story meetings at the King William, a fancy hotel in Toronto,” recalls Grauerholz. “I remember I talked with William, Terry, and David about Naked Lunch…I did the best I could to try and set Terry up with this job and it just never came to anything after that. I do have an unforgettable memory of the next morning. I remember at the Toronto airport early in the morning, about nine, nine-thirty, Terry stopping at one of the bars at the airport, and really slamming [back] a bunch of drinks. I don’t remember if it was Bloody Marys or what. Well before breakfast. He was shaking and he just physically looked very ill and unhappy. I thought to myself, ‘My God, he’s really turned into a raging alcoholic.’ I say nothing to drinking in principle, even heavy drinking, but, my God, if you can’t get on a plane at ten in the morning without three, four drinks, something is wrong. I don’t know if David perceived this about Terry or what.
“The last time I ever spoke to Terry, I was in Los Angeles at Earl McGrath’s place. Terry called to say hi and then he began saying, ‘Ah, I was counting on you’ (Naked Lunch was already out by this point)…. Terry was remonstrating and rebuking me for not fixing him up with that job. And I was really hurt because I had tried to fix him up with the fucking job! It wasn’t my fault that David chose to write the script himself, but that was literally the last time we ever spoke.”
Grauerholz realized Southern’s bitterness was atypical of the Grand Guy. Still, given the last two decades, perhaps Southern could be given some slack for feeling a little abused and neglected.
14
Texas Summer
Dylan Thomas said, “Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Well, that was easy for him to say. Dead at thirty-nine after drinking himself into an early grave, Thomas had made the big exit just as his celebrity was peaking. By contrast, Southern had survived and paid the price of neglect.
The Hawkeye debacle and the battle with stomach cancer after two decades of critical indifference and energy-draining projects had taken their toll. With his white hair and beard, Southern was looking a lot more like Merlin than the cool and slim hipster of yore. The Grand Guy was becoming all too aware that he was simply another old man.
In late November 1989, Victor Bockris paid Southern a visit. As a fan as well as friend of Southern, Bockris wanted everyone to know about the magic of Terry’s art and life. He had pitched Ingrid Sischy at Interview magazine on a Southern feature, knowing all too well that any significant media coverage had been almost nonexistent since 1970. Aside from a brief chat in connection with his biography of Keith Richards, Bockris had not seen his friend in a long time. He was touched by the warm hospitality of Southern, who enjoyed playing the gracious host in his country home. Surrounded by fresh snow, the house by Blackberry River looked especially beautiful in the moonlight—a quiet haven between melancholy and calm.
In a kind of baronial splendor, Southern sat across from Bockris in an armchair next to a fire. Bockris could see a typewriter nearby. A freshly opened bottle of red wine sat on the table along with a wooden tray of cheese, bread, and crackers. Books and papers were scattered everywhere. Bockris jumped into the questions right away. What was it like, he asked, to be living in Geneva and working on Flash and Filigree and The Magic Christian?
“He described his wife and where he was living at the time,” said Bockris. “It was great. As he was talking to me all the age melted away from his face. I saw this really beautiful young guy come out and his eyes lit up. He was just telling me this in a really lovely way.”
The taping continued for another forty minutes. Then Gail announced dinner was ready. The two men got up and walked into the dining room.
“I was stunned,” said Bockris, “because there before me was a picture out of a magazine. The dining room was elegantly furnished with this eighteenth-century table and a feast was laid out very delicately with beautiful plates and glasses. A great roast on the table with bottles of wine. Terry could see that I was completely stunned. He laughed and said, ‘Special night for you, Vic, here at Blackberry Manor. Best for Squire.’”
Terry seemed to be in great spirits and so was Bockris, who was admittedly a little light-headed from the wine and a joint he’d shared with Terry upon arriving. They sat down and ate dinner. During dessert and cocktails, Bockris started the interview again.
“About fifteen minutes in, I asked a question along the lines of ‘Terry, there are so many people who love your work and really want to know why you haven’t published a book in the last twenty years?’ Then the atmosphere changed dramatically in a way that was frightening and my stomach sort of went three revolutions. He suddenly got cold and removed and changed and said, ‘What is this! An interview with the artist manqué!’ and he didn’t say it humorously. Gail got really uptight and said something like ‘Terry can do what he wants!’ or something kind of stupid that didn’t really make any sense. It was so extreme. There was a long silence and I thought I had blown the interview and completely turned him off. I felt totally zonked the way you do when you’ve got yourself in this wonderful state, you’re up there because you’ve smoked all this grass and had a couple of drinks, but you’re also vulnerable and fragile.”
Bockris did his best to restore the jovial mood. He reassured Terry that he was only asking the question out of a deep sense of love and awe for his friend’s work. Like many of the people who would read the interview, Bockris was at pains to emphasize he couldn’t get enough of Terry’s writing and was just puzzled there wasn’t more. Everyone wants to know about all the crazy experiences behind your books and films. In short, Bockris stressed how much Terry Southern had been missed.
“I was saying this because it was true and then he sort of melted a bit. We kind of got over that point,” says Bockris. “Then he told me that story about crossing the Atlantic in the QE2 with Peter Sellers. That bridged the gap and the interview went on. We went back into the living room, it now being quite late, and had some more drinks. He and I got into a kind of bantering thing and making jokes. He said some pithy things about people…. He was actually praising the people and not putting them down at all.”
Bockris delicately tried to get Terry to respond to the kinds of thorny aesthetic questions that writers like Mailer and Vidal would have parlayed with ease. Often, when asked a direct question that touched on feelings of failure, regret, or frustration, Southern retreated into anecdotes. At their best these anecdotes would give glimpses of Terry’s worldview via the backdoor. In talking about others, Terry was able to talk about himself.
Bockris stayed the night, but left for New York at 7:00 A.M., leaving a thank-you note for Terry and Gail. Later that day, Terry called Victor to express misgivings about the taping session.
“He was like, ‘I don’t want to say anything bad about Norman.’ I said, ‘You didn’t say anything bad, and secondly I wouldn’t publish anything you said that was.’ I put the piece together and took it to the editor of Interview, Ingrid Sischy, and she did a brilliant cut on it. All she did was cut out the bit about Peter Sellers, because the rest of the interview was really all about Terry.”
Condensed from more than forty pages of transcript to a taut two-page spread with evocative pictures of Terry in the fifties and sixties,
Bockris’s Interview piece gave fans a long-overdue treat and piqued the curiosity of general readers. With the reissue of Red Dirt Marijuana and the long-awaited appearance of Texas Summer just around the corner, Bockris’s Interview article promised a major Terry Southern renaissance.
“[The interview dealt with] his whole thing about not wanting to be famous and not courting celebrity. Sischy thought it was a great interview. I got a great response from it. I called Terry up after it came out. He said, ‘Well, I thought the pictures were good,’ so he was obviously uncomfortable,” Bockris recalls, “but I could tell that he wasn’t able to see it was a well-crafted piece that actually showed him in a favorable, enlightened, high-minded way. He also answered a few questions people were wondering about. I guess what I did was I kept the hard and harsher stuff. We didn’t pursue the biographical line and so I wasn’t able to run the stuff about Flash and Filigree, because it didn’t fit into the overall conversation. The interview became, in a sense, a combat between interviewer and interviewee.”
Bockris was right. Southern could not recognize that Victor was paying homage. Southern’s first interview in a mass-circulation publication since the sixties contained a superb photo collage that provided a rare celebratory glimpse of Southern in his prime. Southern’s discomfort with the interview appeared to stem from the regret, frustration, and disappointment he had experienced since those halcyon days.
By 1990, Southern’s work was indeed in limbo. Many of his novels were out of print. New work showed up in odd places—a commentary in the Nation, a liner note for a Marianne Faithfull album, or an interview in some obscure Canadian arts magazine. To say that Southern was operating below radar was an understatement. The Quality Lit Game had long ago been supplanted by corporate mergers, synergies, and cost cutting.