Breathe, relax, listen around. Ask into a phone, “Who are you, love?” and type, “Bless you!” Seek out “America Needs Indians,” the multimedia show that Stewart Brand performed at the 1966 San Francisco Trips Festival. The show placard for the festival lists “America Needs Indians” as the first part of a double bill on Friday January 21, the first night of the three-day festival. It describes the event as follows: “AMERICA NEEDS INDIANS — Sensorium 9. By Stewart Brand and Zach Stewart. 600 slides, 2 movies, 4 sound tracks, flowers, food, rock ‘n’ roll, Eagle Bone Whistle, Thunderstorm, live Cheyenne Tipi, Chippewas, Sioux, Blackfeet, Tlingit, Makah, Pomo and Miwuk, plus anthropologists.” If ever I happened upon a time machine, the Trips Festival is certainly among the events of the past I’d visit. Charles Perry describes the festival in his history of Haight-Ashbury — though he says no more about “America Needs Indians” than that it was “mournfully out of place in the rackety, echoing space of Longshoremen’s Hall.” Ben Van Meter shot footage at the festival, eventually releasing a short called S.F. Trips Festival, An Opening (1966). Look, too, for a feature film of his called Acid Mantra or Rebirth of a Nation (1968). Wheeler Winston Dixon discusses Van Meter in his book The Exploding Eye: A Re-Visionary History of 1960s American Experimental Cinema.
With my father-in-law and my nephew I caught a matinee screening of The Rise of Skywalker, an anti-imperialist franchise film prefaced by trailers for imperialist dreck: upcoming releases like My Spy, Bad Boys Forever, and Top Gun Maverick. Granted a brief respite from parenting by our in-laws, Sarah and I drop in on a New Year’s party where we chat with friends, though we bail well before midnight, unable in brief to enjoy ourselves in full. Yet here we are, F. beside us, welcoming the decade ahead.
A colleague of mine who has become a friend over the years, both of us members of a shared reading group, donated some of his books to a local thrift store, whereupon I scooped them up as if the cosmos had willed them toward me. All of this happened several years ago; yet as I sat today, mind churning with topics recommended or observed, my thoughts wandered from a counterfactual, alternate-history version of Jacques Demy’s Model Shop, starring not Gary Lockwood but Demy’s original choice for the lead, a then-unknown Harrison Ford. There I was imagining imaginary stills from the imaginary LA of this imaginary film, when with a wash of emotion I happened upon one of these books I’d scored from my friend: a Beacon Press trade paperback of Herbert Marcuse’s Eros and Civilization. It’s a book I should read, given what I teach. “Beyond the Reality Principle” is where it’s at, as is “Political Preface 1966,” written a decade after the book’s initial appearance. For Marcuse, a successful revolution would be one that makes the human body “an instrument of pleasure rather than labor” (xv), transforming work into play. Attempting to do my part, I pull an LP from the shelves in my basement and bask in the choir, percussion, and wolfsong of tracks like Paul Winter’s “Kyrie.”
William Irwin Thompson interjects, speaking on behalf of coming together as a mass of music rather than matter. Ecology appears here as it should, a science not of scarcity but of sacred geometry. Gary Snyder delivers his “Prayer for the Great Family,” a poem from his book Turtle Island. Let animals and plants once again be our teachers and guides.
Children of Men is a panic-pitched end-times vision, a film about fear, all of twenty-first century humanity’s worries in quick succession: terrorism, environmental collapse, wars waged between states and nonstate actors, inequality, infertility, banditry, you name it. “Theo,” the Clive Owens character, wanders traumatized, cynical and half-numb, through a kind of hell-house morality tale, until his arrival at the miracle of the nativity. His job thenceforth is to shepherd Kee, the film’s Mary, a refugee whose body houses future life, toward the hope of the film’s Utopia, a legendary community said to exist on an island in the Azores, led by a group called the Human Project. “Everything’s fine,” people keep saying, “all part of a bigger thing!” With death and danger all around them, punctuated by moments of great beauty, Kee persists, and Theo follows, protecting her and the baby from harm. Members of the Human Project arrive to the rescue by film’s end, floating toward Kee and her baby in a boat called Tomorrow.
Since we’re creating the universe (you and I!) we might as well have some fun, as do the members of the Incredible String Band in their film Be Glad for the Song Has No Ending (1970). (An essential psychedelic artifact, communicating secret knowledges from heads to fellow heads across time. The sections on band member Robin Williamson feel particularly otherwordly.)
Dancing down the sidewalk singing from lampposts, Oyster card in hand, we make our way, beach beckoning from beneath the pavement. In just a few short days I take leave of the States for a month abroad. The story at this point is one of spontaneous grandular progress, self-actualization into a grand unknown. Who will we be on return from this journey? I search old notebooks for clues. A head speaks to me across time, knowing perhaps that a future me would eventually get the message.
I steal away from work midafternoon and watch Space is the Place — the original 64-minute version. I think of it as an act of study — perhaps even what Fred Moten and Stefano Harney call “fugitive planning.” Ra imagines a colony in outer space free of the white people of planet Earth. “Equation-wise, think of time as officially ended,” he explains early in the film. Once time is ended, he says, we “teleport the planet here through music.” Sun Ra’s jazz is the sign-system equivalent of a riot — and when the Overseer comes ’round to make him pay, Ra holds up a card, casts a spell, relocates the confrontation elsewhere, into the Space Age, technic surrounded by void. Through his music, Ra creates “a multiplicity of other destinies.”
A rich new vein of countercultural history sees light of day thanks to the 2015 documentary Here Come The Videofreex. The archival footage used in the film is chaotic and messy, capturing with all of the power and potential of new media the revolutionary movements of the early 1970s. Watching the film today, I can’t resist wishing for a chance to restage the Revolution, the first attempt’s energy and conviction guided now by the lessons learned from half a century of culture war. Let the forces of magic and of miracle triumph where before we succumbed to our frustrations and our desire for vengeance.
Robert Frank (b. 1924) is a Swiss-American photographer and documentary filmmaker, best known for his 1958 book of photographs, The Americans, for which Jack Kerouac wrote the introduction. Pull My Daisy, released in 1959, was Frank’s first film and stars Beat writers like Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg, with Kerouac supplying narration. The film was actually codirected by Frank and the American Abstract Expressionist painter Alfred Leslie (b. 1927). Leslie is the one who decided to shoot the film silent and rely on Kerouac’s voiceover. “You can’t act out Kerouac’s characters,” he realized, “because they’re all poetry…They’re not independent people, independent characters. Each person he writes about is another aspect of himself.” Regarding Kerouac’s performance, George Kouvaros writes, “With a rough cut of the film playing in front of him, Kerouac recorded the voiceover narration three times. Each time he varied not only the tone and intonation but also the content. The version that is used on the film’s soundtrack is an amalgam of material from the three versions, spliced together by Frank and Leslie” (9).
The first public screening of Pull My Daisy occurred at Cinema 16 in New York City on 11 November 1959, a year after the publication of Kerouac’s novel The Dharma Bums. The film was lauded by critics, including independent filmmaker Jonas Mekas, and is sometimes regarded as a founding work of the “New American Cinema.” This was an experimental, avant-garde movement radically opposed to mainstream Hollywood fare. In one of the movement’s initial statements, it asserted, “The official cinema all over the world is running out of breath. It is morally corrupt, aesthetically obsolete, thematically superficial, temperamentally boring. […]. We don’t want false, polished, slick films—we prefer them rough, unpolished, but alive; we don’t want rosy films—we want them the color of blood.” To fans of the New American Cinema, Pull My Daisy’s apparent spontaneity seemed to represent an ode to freedom and improvisation, values reinforced by the Beat actors and their anarchic tomfoolery.
The program notes distributed on the evening of Pull My Daisy’s premiere contain one of movement spokesperson Jonas Mekas’s most important statements, a short essay titled, “A few notes on spontaneous cinema.” In this essay, Mekas writes, “Art as an action and not as a series of plots, facts, still-lives, moving collages and pastiches. It is a direction intimately linked with the general feeling in other areas of life and art, with the ardor for rock-and-roll, the interest in Zen Buddhism, the development of abstract expressionism (action painting), the emergence of spontaneous prose and New Poetry—a long delayed reaction against puritanism, Aristotle, and the mechanization of life.”
Despite Mekas’s reading of Pull My Daisy as an example of “spontaneous cinema,” careful planning went into the staging and shooting of the film. Much of it, in fact, was carefully rehearsed. After all, improvisation doesn’t have to mean total disorganization or abandon. Rather, as Blaine Allan notes, it means establishing shared rules or limitations or protocols “broad enough to permit and encourage free play in production.” The film’s actors certainly engaged in free play of this sort on the set, and Kerouac’s narration revels in “goofing” and zany verbal excess—but as Allan argues, “in terms of pictorial quality, editing, structure, and performance, Pull My Daisy demonstrates control, not loss of control.”
This is the great mystery of Beat literature and beat cinema: the way it models a new mode of organization, one that balances preparation and spontaneity, liberty and control.
The song that we hear during the film’s opening credits is called “The Crazy Daisy” by Anita Ellis, and it uses the phrase, “Pull my daisy, tip my cup, all my doors are open. Cut my thoughts for coconuts, all my eggs are broken. Hop my heart on, harp my height, seraphs hold me steady. Hip my angel, hype my light, lay it on the needy.” Or something along those lines. The lyrics were written by Ginsberg and Kerouac, inspired by the 17th-century “Tom o’ Bedlam” songs, or songs that celebrated the wisdom of madmen (as “Bedlam” was an institution for the mentally ill).
What, I wonder, is the meaning of the phrase “pull my daisy”? It sounds pretty sexual, no?
B&W, a slow pan left across a dirty urban apartment. “A loft in the Bowery on the Lower East Side of New York.” Kerouac receives credit as the film’s screenwriter and narrator, the screenplay adapted from the third act of his unproduced play Beat Generation. We see a painting and an easel leaned against a door, followed by an unpeopled shot of the kitchen observed from above. The scene remains unpeopled and still until a woman in a robe pulls open a set of long, nearly floor-to-ceiling shutters to reveal the light of a tall window, nearly double the height of the woman herself. The narrator’s voice enters after the song’s fadeout and we learn that it is “early morning in the universe” and she is “the wife.”
“She’s a painter and her husband’s a railroad brakeman.” The story is apparently based on an incident in the life of Neal Cassady (the real-life friend of Kerouac’s on whom the characters of Dean Moriarty and Cody Pomeroy are based). Cassady’s wife, the painter Carolyn, invites a respected bishop to dinner, but Cassady’s Beatnik friends crash the party, and hilarity ensues.
Her son enters the kitchen, a young boy named Pablo (played by Pablo Frank, the director’s son).
How does Kerouac’s narration affect our experience of Frank’s B&W moving images, each image “composed” like one of his photographs?
Kerouac slips into the voices of his characters, becoming high-pitched and whimsical, for instance, when performing the lines of Pablo. Suddenly Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg enter the apartment in their hooded parkas, gesticulating beside beer cans and a jug of wine. These two pairs of characters occupy separate spots spliced into a sequence. Are the two pairs occupying the same spacetime? Will they enter each other’s frames?
All of these separate streams of thought and experience are made to seem products of a single disembodied consciousness.
Kerouac’s narration establishes an initial connection between the characters, followed by images of Corso and Ginsberg waving out a window down to Pablo, who reciprocates from the street below. The poets exchange “secret naked doodlings.” “Secret scatological thought—that’s why everyone wants to see it.”
We do hear some “diegetic” or story-generated sounds alongside Kerouac’s narration: car horns, a flushing toilet. Timing and synchronicity are central to the film’s charm. Kerouac’s narration has a slightly precognitive quality to it, the words ever-so-slightly anticipating the actions or events as they occur onscreen. Yet at other times, it tricks you with its goofy, humorous seeming spontaneity, the narrator working with no more than us when interpreting narrative imagery. As film scholar George Kouvaros notes, “part of the pleasure of the film is in listening to how Kerouac directs our eyes to the existence of the people, places and objects on screen, while also filling in just enough of the dialogue to maintain a sense of the story” (10). For Kerouac, spontaneous prose is linked with the mental discipline of haiku: “pointing out things directly, purely, concretely, no abstractions or explanations.”
The result, in Pull My Daisy, is a kind of echo effect: or as Kouvaros says, “Writing as deferral, as embodying the always-already past nature of apprehension.”
Anyway, back to the narrative. Ginsberg and Corso trade opposing wisdoms of optimism and pessimism as they discuss New York and poetry. Next to enter the apartment are Milo (“The Man of the House”) and Peter (“The Saint”). Milo, played by the famous painter Larry Rivers, informs the poets that The Bishop is coming, and that they therefore better behave. A fairly strict gendered division of labor: Milo works the railroad, and The Wife cleans the house and sees that the boys are fed. Yet, on a more positive note, this arrangement frees The Wife to pursue her art.
A change in style of music marks the arrival of the Bishop and his mother and sister.” Corso sits on the floor and pumps the Bishop with questions about Buddhism, about which the Bishop is said to know something. After a weird nonsensical first attempt, Corso reassures the Bishop he’s merely goofing. (“Goofing means I’m playing around with words,” he says, then asks with seriousness, “Is it true that we’re all in Heaven now?” Corso concludes by asking for affirmation that Buddhism allows one to do anything one wants. “Yes, when not thinking,” the Bishop replies, “we sit in quiet bliss.”
Mez McGillicuddy arrives, a hepcat organ player. When the Bishop is asked by Peter if baseball is holy, the film cuts to a narration-less montage where the Bishop delivers a sermon on a sidewalk with an American flag waving in his face. When we cut back to the face of the Bishop in conversation again in the apartment, we realize that the montage must have been a dream sequence. Kerouac returns as narrator to add, “The angel of silence has flown over all their heads.” He then launches into a bizarre, improvised, stream-of-consciousness gibberish containing references to the atom bomb. Suddenly a young girl’s voice recites “Humpty Dumpty.” As the camera rotates on its axis at the center of the circle, it’s as if Kerouac, using his multiple voices, narrates for us the telepathically overheard content of each character’s thought-stream.
Kerouac also models for us a playful, spontaneously interpretive relationship to one’s environment, showing us how we might find pleasure amid the existential crisis of an otherwise meaningless world. Ginsberg’s inner thoughts, interestingly, seem to be a set of wordless images of him dancing and performing for others.
“Strange thoughts you young people have,” says the Bishop. The Bishop’s Mother walks to the organ and plays some inspirational church music. Suddenly Mezz picks up a fluegelhorn or French horn or something and starts jazzing things up. Ginsberg and the others start asking the Bishop whether or not ordinary objects are holy, using language similar to the fourth section of “Howl.” The film thus stages a confrontation between the Bishop’s ideas and the ideas of the Beats. As the jazz gets underway, the Bishop nervously stands to leave. “Doing something and saying goodbye are both the same,” Kerouac notes. It’s now 11pm, we learn. Pablo, woken by the noise, joins the others and blows his horn. Milo picks him up and Kerouac sings wistfully, “Up you go, little smoke.” When Milo returns, he performs his impression of a cowboy, eventually pointing his fingers shaped like a gun at Corso’s forehead. The Wife enters the room and yells at him for behaving aggressively toward the beatniks. Realizing they’re no longer welcome, however, the Beats up and leave. But then they call up to Milo and he joins them on the street, the Wife left behind looking like the meanie.
And with that, the film ends.
Life unfolds in installments of day and night. For work I review the documentary Berkeley in the Sixties, a film I’ve watched and taught many times over the years. The first section of the film is titled “Confronting the University.” Berkeley President Clark Kerr appears before an audience attempting to rebrand the public university as an appendage of the “knowledge industry” and a focal point of fiscal growth for the state economy. Against him rise students like Jack Weinberg and Jackie Goldberg, young people who arrived to the university looking for truth and meaning. The university came to operate for them and for the other members of the Free Speech movement as a site for live, immediate, direct, hands-on transformation of society. As viewers we watch with some surprise as the movement succeeds in growing and repeatedly mobilizing a large coalition of members. The “children of affluence,” the future managers of the society realize in the thousands that their education has been designed to ruin them. The battle over free speech evolves into something more generalizable, something much more meaningful and appealing: a battle against dehumanization. The war of humanity against unchecked bureaucracy. Students at Berkeley made the radical choice to live, to revolt, to actively push back and participate in co-creation of the future through occupation of buildings. They gather in the agora of the auditorium and laugh and boo at and surround and confront the bald head of the head of the university, President Kerr. They talk about sitting down together and re-planning the whole structure of the university with a new conception of the purpose of education. They realize that the mechanisms that the Free Speech movement attempted to change are mechanisms operating throughout the society. As audience members, we realize the same is true today. Their story thus confronts us with the question, “What would WE say, how would WE behave, if we abolished hierarchy and suspended authority? What if we did that, here and now, in our classrooms?”
Listening closely, entertaining a variety of interpretations as possibilities running simultaneously beside one another, I wander, first among the hallways of David Bowie’s “Memory of a Free Festival,” already a bit distant and nostalgic, the gathering recalled in past tense: “It was…It was…It was.”
Bowie’s lyrical persona sings from Milton territory — trying to reconstitute hope amid summer’s end, paradise lost. By song’s end, distant festival-goers join voices in a chorus of reconciliation, animated by the sentiment, “The Sun Machine is Coming Down, and We’re Gonna Have a Party.” Afterwards, I re-watch Easy Rider, noting the semantic riches of the film’s opening shot of a trompe l’oeil mural of pre-Conquest Mexico on the side of a pit-stop called La Contenta Bar in Taos, New Mexico. The scene depicts US-Mexican relations in terms of the black-market capitalist exchange-relation of the drug deal. The Captain and Billy are just small-timers, their counterculture a mere cargo cult, the film notes in the next scene, where the two men crouch defensively as the planes of the global techno-capitalist superpower fly overhead. Look at Peter Fonda loading his bike’s American flag embroidered fuel tank with rolls of dollars as Steppenwolf sings “The Pusher.” He and Hopper walk like natives of the space age among desert farmhouse ruins. They seem as alien to these landscapes as their motorbikes — products of a different stage of development. The bikes make the horses of white settler-colonialist ranchers skittish. The Captain pays respect by complimenting the ranchers on their “spread.” “You do your own thing on your own time: you should be proud.” Hippies appear here as mere nouveau riche speculators eyeing potential property on the frontier. The montage sequence that accompanies “The Weight” is an ode to the magic of the deserts of the American Southwest. Passing a joint back and forth with a paisley-bandana’d hitchhiker, Captain and Billy learn of the disrespectful nature of their colonial heritage. After soaking it in, the Captain asks the others if they’ve ever wished they were someone else. The same theme reemerges later in the film. After smoking his first joint around a campfire on the way to Mardi Gras, Jack Nicholson’s character George Hanson comes alive with far-out tales of aliens from a more advanced civilization living among Americans since 1946. Both he and the Bowie of “Memory of a Free Festival” refer to these figures as “Venusians.” By the end of the film, though, I’m left wondering: Are Captain and Billy victims of a Faustian bargain, as J.D. Markel argues, following the path of Dante’s Inferno?