Bukowski: Born into This

I'd never heard Bukowski speak before. I'd seen the pictures and read the words. This hard-nosed writer surprised me as a very soft spoken, very sensitive artist. His intimidating face became friendlier and friendlier to me as the film progressed. With this movie, you get to see a lot of interview footage and a lot of personal commentary from close friends. You get your heart tugged at when his childhood is filled in for you. You laugh at his wit while handling interviewers. And you probably get thirsty looking at all the wine and beer he drinks. The only thing I didn't care for about this was the ever-so-pompous Bono sharing his 2 cents.

This was a special movie for me since Bukowski occupied a special place in my life and provided me with some basic notions about looking at the world during an early formative time in my life. The year was 1975, and I was 21.

Now that I'm 50 and I've been "clean and sober" for over half my life, Bukowski has lost quite a bit of his charm. Watching him in this movie I couldn't help but realize what a total case of adolescent arrested development he was. And although I think he should practically be canonized as a saint for his refusal to knuckle under to the phony plastic American success machine, it's also apparent that most of what he had to say was only negative, it only went half way there, so to speak. In other words, he provided no positive suggestions. He just said: be yourself, be a slacker, follow your own obsessions. And this isn't enough as far as offering young people something good to believe in, something that will help them feel like they can belong to something worthwhile.

And much of the negative imagery quoted in his poems in this movie (I was never a fan of his poetry, only his prose) is almost embarrassingly lurid and crude, only a small step up from, a slightly more polished version of, garden variety Heavy Metal rock 'n' roll doom and gloom song lyrics.

One other impressionistic thing I wanted to note was just how much John Martin, the publisher of Black Sparrow books, reminded me of Leonard "Nipper" Read, the police officer that arrested and helped prosecute the infamous UK gangsters, the Kray twins. Just a fun fact, that's all.

Another thing that struck me was Bukowski's attitude. I'd heard him speak before, on cassette tape and on an early video of a reading he did in Bellevue, Washington, and I knew he had this kind of snotty, purring way of talking, but it really came through here. He really didn't seem like a very nice person, not someone whose attitude I would put up with in real life for very long.

But, all-in-all, this was a very well done documentary, very well paced and hardly ever got bogged down. And it was a real pleasure to get a well rounded picture of a personality I had always been very curious about. And it was also very good to get to see and know some of the other people in Bukowski's life. John Martin, for example, is a very interesting and engaging man in his own right.

As a portrait of an interesting literary and cultural figure I would recommend this film highly to everyone. And I think most Bukowski fans will like it a lot, too.

For Bukowski fans, this film is another of those items you have to possess but which will leave outsiders repulsed or appalled.

Most of the information in the film has been captured in various published interviews and biographies and in Bukowski's own autobiographical writings. But it is good to see the man moving about before our eyes again, driving his VW, visiting the track and the laundry, and his childhood home, where he 'reminisces' about the beatings his father administered with a razor strop. And it's interesting seeing some of Bukowski's lovers and associates again.

The quality of the archival footage is pretty poor, having been shot, it appears, with amateur 8mm equipment. We can be thankful it was shot at all, since who knew what value it might have. The sound, however, is quite good.

After many years of reading about Bukowski, I still haven't decided whether he was a sensitive soul driven to occasional episodes of egotistical pettiness and meanness by a bad childhood or just a self-centered ass who happened to have talent. However you view him in that regard, you cannot deny that he stuck by his vocation in spite of all. He personified the driven writer.

For those of us who haven't read any of his writing, Charles Bukowski, as seen in this informative, engaging new documentary by John Dullaghan, is a craggy deadbeat everyman, a working class L.A. writer with enough cult status to have some cool famous fan admirers. Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Harry Dean Stanton, Tom Waits, Bono of U2, and Sean Penn are the main guys who read lines or speak in admiring and affectionate terms of Bukowski. He also had a string of women, some wives, the last one, Linda Lee, a beautiful, classy lady with a tough and tender edge worthy of Lauren Bacall. More important yet for his reputation perhaps, he had an editor and publisher who put him on a monthly salary and brought out a lot of his books, John Martin of Black Sparrow Press, who saw Bukowski as an updated Whitman, a man of the people spewing wild poetry.

Somebody else told me he was the kind of writer you like if you're young and wild and drink a lot, the kind of tortured outsider persona that appeals to a 22-year-old, but that you wouldn't go back to. If you used to hit the sauce and gave it up you may feel Bukowski's prose has lost its flavor, like a doper's stoned insights. There are those who consider the writer a case of arrested development. Be that as it may, all his life Bukowski never wanted to be anything but a writer and never stopped writing, poems, then stories, finally novels. Two of his books most often mentioned are Post Office and Ham on Rye.

These may be young men's books with more rough flavor than depth of thought, but the fascination, for the young man, is with something solid: the hard nuggets of brutal boring existence, the courage of the deadbeat who's seen it all and bravely slogs on. First there's the six years, age six to twelve, of being beaten severely once a week with a razor strop by his ex-soldier father. An experience like that, Bukowski says, is good for a writer because it teaches you to tell the truth. Next he had ulcerative acne vulgaris as an adolescent and his face was covered with pullulating boils that left his face craggy and pitted for life -- though there are angles in some of the varied films from different decades that show him tanned and sunny, almost elegant-looking and possessed of an evident macho sexiness that explains in part the many women in his life. The other part is that he was a late bloomer as a ladies' man and took advantage of the fame of his later years to make up for lost time.

After the beatings and the acne Bukowski started visiting Skid Row to prepare for his future life. As his second decade wore on he wandered round the country staying at flophouses, rooming houses and cheap hotels, drunk, obviously, most of the time, throughout the Forties, excused by a psychiatrist from wartime military service. In the Fifties he settled into a minimal working stiff existence: employee at the post office, delivering mail (`living hell'); later on sorting it all night (which was so monotonous he'd get so he couldn't lift his arm), and, because he couldn't sleep, spending the day drinking and writing. Then, when a new addiction to gambling kicked in, he'd be at the racetrack playing the horses and play barfly in the afternoons brawling and flirting. He trashes the Barbet Schroeder movie from his screenplay about that part of his life, says Mickey Rourke is too theatrical and flowery; and he wrote a book called Hollywood after the filmmaking experience to show the dream factory was even stupider and faker than he'd ever imagined.

Eventually a regular column in an L.A. weekly got Bukowski noticed. Then John Martin stepped in with his financial and moral support and through the Seventies and Eighties the man's reputation and financial success grew to the point where he moved to a nice house in San Pedro with his lovely wife. He wasn't expected to live after developing severe bleeding ulcers in his thirties (1956) but he recovered and had a new burst of creativity. In his last few years he got tuberculosis, lost 60 pounds, and gave up heavy drinking. He died soon after being diagnosed with leukemia, at 73.

Watching this documentary you feel good because of the man's clarity and humor. Simplistic his expression may be, but it has the brilliant directness of the practiced writer who wears no mask. But despite all the tastes of his writing he and his celebrity admirers provide, I still don't know if I'd want to read some of his prolific oeuvre, and the picture of a similar, but sober, figure named Harvey Pekar in American Splendor (Bukowski too was wildly re-imagined by R. Crumb) seems more complex and multilayered, while no less down to earth. It's no secret that Harry Dean, Bono, Sean, and Mr. Waits are enthusiastic boozers themselves, and that's one big reason why `Hank' Bukowski's their bard and patron saint.

And if you compare Bukowski to another heavy user (but a more wildly adventurous one), William Burroughs, his mind and work don't seem as rich or as interesting as Burroughs', nor his life as intensely engaged with the issues of his times as the Beats'. Nevertheless, that's not to impugn the authenticity of his voice. There's nobody quite like Bukowski; hence, no doubt, his cult status, and the way people from other countries, places where the brawling and the articulate life are less often combined, find him so fascinating – and so accessible.

An old friend of mine used to regail me with stories of Charles Bukowski, the great everyman poet who wasn't afraid to tell it like it his, who didn't care at all about formalism or what had come before him...he just wanted to put his essence on the page (no matter how crudely he might fashion it).

BUKOWSKI: BORN INTO THIS is a great show into the life of this man. It meanders at points, and tries a bit too hard to exemplify this guy, but you can't argue with some of the majestic footage different folks got. A scene shot in 1986 shows a drunk Bukowski yelling at his wife and then literally trying to kick her off the couch...footage that silenced the auditorium and solidified the idea of Bukowski as a drunken belligerent. But at another point, we see Bukowski cry while reading a poem of his about a woman he lost...completely different from the mythical man. Other stories of his rudeness are shadowed by stories of his covert kindness.

There is nothing incredibly special about how this is shot...but for any Bukowski fan, this is a must-see...the most in-depth look into the life of the man so far shown in America. Too bad that one of the greatest American poets ever is more famous abroad than at home.