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From the Other Side of the Wind: |
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What determines the parts that an actor gets to play on screen? An intricate, sometimes barely fathomable alchemy of factors: his/her potentialities and limitations – or, at least, how these are perceived and construed by the film industry; specific movie successes that suddenly give the actor a bankable association and create an image; the fact that any durable screen persona is usually a dynamic amalgam of various, even contradictory facets that can be used and combined differently in any given film; how the actor’s gender, age and physique at any given stage of life mesh (or fail to mesh) with a certain repertoire of standardised, narrative movie types; and, hovering over all of this, a certain, always powerfully influential force of the felt cultural meaning of this actor (if he or she has had any career longevity) as some kind of icon, some sign of his or her times. Dennis Hopper (1936-2010), a prolific, energetic, charismatic performer in A grade and B grade films alike, in popular cinema and in art cinema – and an ubiquitous media celebrity – also came loaded (more than most contemporaneous actors) with a past. Out of the 1950s: James Dean and Giant (1956). Out of the 1960s: Easy Rider (1969), which he also directed. And then everything that followed these brilliant origins: the 1970s burn-out (when, in fact, he never stopped working around the world) and the mid 1980s comeback heralded by his role as Frank Booth in Blue Velvet (1986). As the years and decades roll by, the names, creators and iconic figures with which Hopper was associated, either on- or off-screen, also shifted and changed in a dizzying procession: from Dean, Natalie Wood and Roger Corman, to Wim Wenders, Francis Coppola, Charles Bukowski and William Burroughs; from David Lynch, Neil Young, Christopher Walken, Quentin Tarantino and Barbara Hershey to Sean Penn, Keanu Reeves, Abel Ferrara, Asia Argento and Kevin Costner. His image changed, too – most notably from the Gothic, noir and Tarantino associations of the ‘80s and ‘90s (Blue Velvet, Red Rock West [1993], True Romance [1993] and his own The Hot Spot [1990]), what he himself enthusiastically dubbed the “Blood Lust Snicker Snicker in Wide Screen” phenomenon, or the “new wave of violence in movies” (Hopper & Tarantino 1994, pp. 13-14), to a closer identification in the general media-sphere with a role he had long played in real life. This was Hopper the connoisseur and collector of modern art since his friendship with Dean; art photographer and painter; fixture of Interview magazine; distinguished (if quirky and sometimes deliberately self-mocking) talking head in numerous TV documentaries (on Marcel Duchamp, Andy Warhol, and the UK series This is Modern Art); and a type of self-conscious performance artist in films of a much-touted wave of narrative features by celebrated New York artists (Julian Schnabel’s Basquiat [1996] and David Salle’s Search and Destroy, aka The Four Rules [1995]). Tailored elegance – a far cry from the earlier, vintage, cowboy-hippie look – comes to the fore in the Hopper incarnation of the ‘90s (it is a prime element in Paul Schrader’s Witch Hunt [1995]); his characters’ costumes were increasingly supplied by Armani or Hugo Boss, and his haircuts invariably short and sharp. At the end of the ‘90s, the disquieting B movie MichaelAngel (1999) brought together the psychosis of Frank Booth with this carefully nurtured art world association: Hopper plays a serial killer whose artfully gruesome blood-splatterings at the scenes of his crimes bring him perverse recognition as “a brilliant abstract expressionist”. Bringing along these various associations to each new role of the 1980s and ‘90s – and cast in part because of them – Hopper faced the risk of becoming merely a “convocation of all that he had previously done (…) an emblem, a citation, a monument – to the point of becoming a museum-piece”. But, as Jean-Marc Lalanne goes on to comment in his analysis of the career of Jean-Pierre Léaud, what such a process can overlook, obscure and constrain is an emblematic figure’s “extraordinary possibilities as an actor” (Lalanne 1997, p. 55). It is the aim of this survey to speculate on the logic underpinning Hopper’s career moves as an actor, especially from the start of the 1980s up to his death at age 74. Naturally, commentators like myself are prone to find logic where, in the flow of an actor’s life, there is only a volatile mixture of opportunity, advice, luck (good and bad), timetabling clashes, hunches, deals and maybe – somewhere, somehow, through all of that – the fragile thread of a personal vision. Nonetheless, this essay emphasises the striking coherence of Hopper’s films as an actor, when viewed from a particular angle. For the most part, I am placing biographical and journalistic sources to one side. And only fleeting allusions will be made to Hopper’s directorial career, covering seven features from Easy Rider to Chasers (1994), plus several shorts. Looking at Hopper from different methodological perspectives has the effect of creating multiple, sometimes overlapping, sometimes incommensurable Hoppers. This essay recognises three: Hopper as an emblem of 1960s counterculture (his place in a history of popular culture); Hopper as a screen actor (his skills and limitations, and the way these relate to a given film’s stylistics); and Hopper as male anti-hero (within the changing social values of his times). Hopper
1: 1960s Emblem The shape of Hopper’s later career – ‘70s burn-out, ‘80s comeback, ‘90s success – easily bolsters many different or contradictory versions of what the ‘60s might mean to us today, depending which part of that narrative is stressed, how it is alluded to and reflected upon in any one of the films. Hopper is, all at once, the ‘60s ‘without apology’ (see Sayres et al, 1984) or smothered in regret, a post-Beat relic or a pre-punk role model, the living spirit of an era or its ravaged ghost. Through him, different interest groups can work out – in that shared, imaginative space provided by cinema – something of their relation to that tumultuous decade of social change. Other actors are similarly emblematic, like Hopper’s Easy Rider confreres Peter Fonda and Jack Nicholson, or the national stars created by the various New Waves of the ‘60s all around the world (Léaud, Lou Castel, Zbigniew Cybulski, David Warner). But to none of these has the ‘60s identification stuck so persistently or tenaciously as it did to Hopper. This has to do not only with the parts that Hopper got, but also the kind of sensibility he embodied and projected on screen. Hopper exhibits an identifiably ‘60s energy, according to standard pop culture lore: the rebel, the anarchist, the good-hearted doper and drinker, the wild and crazy guy with a brimming libido and a manic, instantly recognisable laugh. Hopper’s countercultural ‘60s persona is nostalgically indulged in the teen comedy My Science Project (1985) and the trading-places plot of Flashback (1990) – not forgetting Robert Altman’s oddity O.C. & Stiggs (1987), with its homage to Hopper’s role in Apocalypse Now (1979). On another level, his persona receives an upbeat, ‘back to the future’ workout when projected into the worlds of The American Way (aka Riders of the Storm, 1986) and Space Truckers (1996). These films, like Waterworld (1995), deftly marry Hopper’s trademark ‘60s look with the punk bricolage, scavenger mode of costume popularised by the Mad Max films (1979-2024). But if Hopper sometimes carries with him the dream of the ‘60s, ultimately he does not embody a Utopian yearning or aspiration. Failure, death-drives and burn-out shadowed him from the start, from the James Dean association through to the inaugural moment of generational error – “We blew it” – in Easy Rider. So, those Hopper dramas that involve explicit, sometimes elaborate references to the ‘60s – from his own The Last Movie (1971) and Tracks (1976) to Apocalypse Now, River’s Edge (1986), The Indian Runner (1991) and Jesus’ Son (1999) – are usually sad, ugly affairs, tales of genocide, cultural devastation, suicide and betrayal. Hopper, in the long run, is less an emblem of the ‘60s, frozen in time, than an embodiment of the continuing legacy of that era, of the wear and tear visited by the vicissitudes of personal and public history upon its dreams and ideals – a living test of its ability either to survive as inspiration, or die pathetically, as if to reveal its inherent bankruptcy, its status as a historical ‘original sin’ against the social order. The television film Doublecrossed (1991) elegantly offers, in the course of its true-life story of Barry Seal, the full mélange of Hopper’s ‘60s-related images. He is wild and crazy, lawless, reckless Dennis – a devil-may-care dope smuggler bonding with his best male friend as he pilots his plane into Latin American and Third World hot spots with abandon. He is manic, but not wilfully self-destructive – fondly remembering how, in the “peace and love” days, drugs were merely used for pleasant “recreation”. Likewise, while he is a naturally anarchic soul, he is not deceitful or manipulative. “This may come as a surprise to you”, as he says to the government agents who eventually nab him, “but I’m an honest man”. Finally, when the bureaucrats have left Seal out to dry, and even his best friend has gone down in a last run, he drives ritually, stoically, to the place where he knows a rendezvous with death awaits him. The ‘60s countercultural legacy had another, paradoxical outcome for Hopper as an actor. Like Rip Torn or Donald Sutherland, he ended up often playing exactly the reverse of what his former association with radicalism would decree: law enforcers (Nails [1992], Road Ends [1997], The Prophet’s Game [1999]), corporate ‘suits’ (Black Widow, 1987), money men (the wealthy art dealer and Warhol patron Bruno Bischofberger in Basquiat), the self-appointed capitalist king of a post-apocalyptic Chicago (George Romero’s Land of the Dead, 2005), and even a cultural-conservative hero, Frank Sinatra (The Night We Called It a Day, 2003). A certain mode of agit-prop satire is clearly brought into play by such casting – although, by the ‘90s, Hopper grew into such roles so well, and on such a grand scale thanks to the success of Speed (1994), that the political irony may have disappeared. In his private and public life, Hopper himself veered increasingly to the right after the ‘80s, eventually participating in the frankly propagandistic, anti-Michael Moore satire, An American Carol (2008). In popular perception, Hopper became a standby ‘heavy’ or villain, in either the cartoonish, artificial, generic mode of Waterworld and Super Mario Bros. (1993) – abstracted even further in his voice work for video games such as Deadly Creatures (2009) – or the more naturalistic dramatic mode of Paris Trout (1991). So, in the cinema of the ‘90s and 2000s, Hopper came to represent a figure of evil. But what complexion of evil, exactly? Although Hopper’s villains can be shady and even omnipotent, it is hard to imagine him as the sort of cold, steely, Nietzschean intellectual portrayed by, for example, Jeremy Irons in Die Hard With a Vengeance (1995). The reason for this is simple: Hopper always plays men of impulse, driven beings. Anti-intellectualism comes naturally to him: in Search and Destroy he rails against the “intellectuals” and “guardians of our culture” who trashed his last book; in The Last Days of Frankie the Fly (1996) he sneers at an amateur filmmaker as “Mr NYU”; and in MichaelAngel he advises: “Never hire a model who thinks she’s an art critic”. His own characters do not merely feel or express emotions – they are gripped, possessed by them. Hence the trance-like quality of many Hopper performances. His characters trust their feelings and are spurred into action by them; their only imaginable program is one powered by lust, greed or revenge, not by abstract principle. Even when Hopper mouths statements of ideology (as in Paris Trout), he delivers them in a glazed, robotic way, as if such rationalisations of pure emotion were simply for the benefit of the world, not the key to understanding his animating, inner will. In Blue Velvet, the fact that Booth’s extravagantly histrionic psychosis (manifested in bursts of violence, fabric fetishism and ceaseless, bizarre verbal obscenities) resembles the exhibited symptoms of Tourette’s Syndrome, serves implicitly to “absolve him from guilt somewhat” (Routt 1987, p. 51). Hopper
2: Screen Actor The image of Hopper as a Method-induced raver slides easily into the judgment that he is a bad actor – or, at the very least, an over-actor. Leonard Maltin’s entry on King of the Mountain (1981) in his Movie & Video Guide determines that Hopper “overacts outrageously” (Maltin 1999, p. 739). Cult fans invert such a verdict – but tacitly agree with the terms of its evaluation – when they praise the actor’s excess, his spectacular circus turns that leap out of the narratives containing them. Tarantino’s appreciation is typical: One of your performances that’s one of my favourites – it’s a wacky, kooky performance – is in The Glory Stompers [1967]. I loved you in that. You know, that is the beginning of you as Frank Booth in Blue Velvet right there (…) The Glory Stompers is really cool, because it looks like you’re improvising it throughout the whole thing (…) You have this one line which is so fucking funny in it: when you’re fighting this guy, you beat him up, and then you look around and say: “Anybody got anything else to say? Turn it on, man, just turn it on.” (Hopper & Tarantino 1994, p. 21-22) Intimately related to this prevailing perception of Hopper is the assumption that he only ever really played himself – and that such a mode of performance constitutes his evident limit, his lack of range as an actor. But what are the real limits of Hopper’s acting range, if any? It is true that, for instance – unlike Al Pacino, say – accents are not his bag; his adoption of different American idioms (as in Frankie the Fly), a European lilt (Basquiat) or a Russian growl (in the hit TV series 24) sound somewhat tentative. There is also the intriguing fact that Hopper is rarely cast in period pieces (Samson and Delilah [1996] and Jason and the Argonauts [2000] notwithstanding). When he is used in this way, the period is not very far away in time (Paris Trout), or there is virtually no attempt to mould and integrate the star’s performance into the period – most spectacularly the case in Philippe Mora’s zany Australian bushranger Western, Mad Dog Morgan (1976). Being perceived as always playing oneself in cinema means, essentially, being identified by a repertoire of mannerisms. Hopper’s mannerisms are, without a doubt, prodigious. Physically, they include: his way of using hands (either fingers pointing or wielded as outstretched palms) and arms in broad, extravagant, punchy movements that underline key words and points; his manic, nervy way of nodding, often with the entire top half of his body, and of shuffling from side to side, from foot to foot; his full-out register, involving bulging, wide-open eyes and shouting – usually reached via the vocal intermediary of an exasperated question asked in a raised pitch. Verbally, Hopper’s inventions – and clearly he had a creative hand in writing or rewriting a good number of them – are frequently astounding. A degree of improvisation, stream-of-consciousness or free-association governs the wildest linguistic flights in his oeuvre. Beyond the inescapable ‘60s-era markers (the ubiquitous use of “man” as verbal punctuation), Hopper uses a Beat poetry or jazz-inspired way of breaking down and repeating the parts of a line in several phrases or sentences – “Get some money, man. Go! Get money!” (Search and Destroy), “New York. Actresses go there. That’s the place actresses go” (Frankie the Fly) – and a wholly individual way of stressing or stretching out certain words or syllables in a phrase (“home is where you haaang yourself”, Eye of the Storm [1991]). The soliloquy in Ferrara’s The Blackout (1997) – where his performance as the director of an audio-visual ‘happening’ is based on personal memories of Nicholas Ray making We Can’t Go Home Again (1973) – is classic Hopper at his most freeform, mannered and exhibitionistic: Since film, since film was too expensive for us, and we video artists, as we like to call ourselves, who’re gonna regenerate the world, and pay for our own film videos, you know what I mean, vidiots that we are, freaks to the light, freaks to the light, freaks, freaks that record our own image, freaks that record our own image, man, whoa, alright, alright. But does this all indicate that Hopper was undirectable, a personality just ‘let go’ in front of a camera? Every individual acting style implies, allows or encourages a certain mise en scène that will best render it. Some filmmakers (Tony Scott in True Romance and Bigas Luna in Reborn [1981]) take a recognisably Godardian approach to capturing Hopper’s physical mannerisms: they deliberately deframe bits of his body language just beyond the boundaries of the screen, as if his energy can scarcely be contained there; they shove him off-centre or into zones of blur, or film him from the back. Others (like Stephen Gyllenhaal in Paris Trout) carefully contain the familiar gestures and isolate them, using the pointing fingers and raised voice as steps or vectors within the dramaturgy of a scene. The obvious fact that Hopper learned his lines and hit his marks in so many films (and that, as a director, he ably guided others to do so) testifies beyond doubt to his professionalism. Carried Away (1996), because of its vast difference from every other Hopper film, provides ample evidence of how actorly, in a conventional sense, he could be when someone took a chance on him. Bruno Barreto’s film is a melancholic, reflective portrait of a precarious rural community. Hopper is cast against type as “a mediocre teacher and a worse farmer”, visibly showing the strain of age. All of the actor’s mannerisms have been pared back and his typical look (for the ‘60s or for the ‘90s) radically altered via old-fashioned glasses, a pipe and baggy, unglamorous costume. Instead, the role comes decked out with some classic signs of acting dexterity – such as the walking stick he uses to limp around on. Hopper is a far more controlled and focused performer than he is sometimes taken to be. One endlessly enthralling sign of Hopper’s skill is his ability to listen to other actors who share a scene with him; this is a significant test of any performer. The famous encounter between Hopper and Walken in True Romance, for instance, is a model demonstration of different ways of listening. Walken (like Meryl Streep) is a histrionic listener; in every shot where he does not speak, he rolls his shoulders, widens and narrows his eyes, and looks ostentatiously around the room for reactions from others. Hopper, by contrast, is a supportive, ensemble player, intensely fixed on the utterances, facial expressions and overall body language of his fellow players. He performs listening with a director’s instinct: his gaze, his gestures of touch, his relay of other actors’ energy, are all ways of aiding and guiding the essential dramaturgical lines of a scene. Hopper
3: Male Anti-Hero An uncomfortable oddness dogs Hopper’s roles, fed by the typically inequitable paradoxes accompanying age and gender in actors’ careers. In Carried Away, a star of his own generation, Julie Harris, who began in Hollywood only a few years before Hopper, is now cast as his mother; and in Space Truckers, the futuristic plot contrives to pair him with a woman his own age but cryogenically suspended in her youthful beauty. Hopper is often a solitary figure in his movies – no partner, no family, no tribe. Sex scenes are strikingly rare in his filmography, and tend to be deliberately perverse or shocking when they do appear (as in Blue Velvet, Backtrack, Carried Away and Lured Innocence [1998]). In The Piano Player (aka The Target, 2002), the spectacle of Hopper’s character gazing at his sexy, adult daughter asleep has nothing paternal about it. Kinky foreplay with Hopper completely clothed, directing the action like an elegant, elder libertine, displaces sex scenes in The Blackout and MichaelAngel. Feel-good specials like Hoosiers (1986) and Chattahoochee (1990) – in which Hopper reforms his self-destructive ways, overcomes his demons, integrates himself into a community, and succeeds or enables others to succeed – are rarer still. All this implies that Hopper, although he was some kind of star, and regardless at times of his top billing in the credits, was rarely a ‘leading man’, and almost never a hero – certainly not a romantic hero. In The Palermo Shooting (2008), Wenders went so far as to cast him as ‘The Death’! By the same token, it began to seem impossible for movies to successfully slot Hopper into the standard roles available for older actors. Prime example: Hopper never cuts it as a conventional, reassuringly symbolic father-figure. Rather, he played a patriarchal emblem of a particularly dark, diseased sort – in the sense that ‘his’ ‘60s begat the world with which younger characters underneath him now struggle (this is especially strong in River’s Edge). When cast as a real, biological father, Hopper is either entirely dysfunctional and troublesome (Out of the Blue [1980], James Toback’s The Pick-Up Artist [1987], The Piano Player), or he is more like a strange brother, friend or even double to his child (in True Romance he kisses his son’s fiancée and then muses to himself as he drives off that she “tastes like a peach”.) Either way, he is rather uncivilised and uncivilisable – and that sets him apart from male stars ranging from Cary Grant to Harrison Ford. Many of the fascinations, contradictions and complexities contained in Hopper’s aggregate screen persona arise from the consequences of the fact that his specific maleness is hard to place or tame. It was logical, in this light, that Hopper would end up appearing in Isabel Coixet’s 2008 adaptation of Philip Roth’s novel Elegy as a Pulitzer-winning poet who, before dropping dead from a heart attack, counsels his best friend to enjoy some “sex on the side” of his respectable marriage, with younger women. Hopper’s expert turn as the ‘70s Sinatra in The Night We Called It a Day – a surprising but inspired piece of casting – highlights all at once the cool, sinister, charming, garrulous, perverse and difficult aspects of the Hopper persona. Blue Velvet is unquestionably the central event of Hopper’s later career. The film gave him, simultaneously, an association with a burgeoning genre – the neo-noir erotic thriller – and an ambiguous, troubling, multiple role inside the genre’s model scenario. On the one hand, Blue Velvet placed Hopper squarely into the symbolic father role of many a noir film: powerful, controlling, violent, the leader of a criminal mob or system, and – most importantly – intensely possessive of a younger woman. Invariably, his claim over that woman will be challenged by a younger man who enters this world and brings about its downfall – the classic, Oedipal triangle of father, mother and son. Such a Freudian ‘family romance’ plays itself out, post-Velvet, in Eye of the Storm, Midnight Heat (1991), Top of the World (1997), Paris Trout, in the subtext of MichaelAngel (where Hopper’s nemesis is a sexually repressed priest), and as sci-fi comedy in Space Truckers. By the same token, Booth in Blue Velvet has a decidedly peculiar and unstable relation to his own sexual identity. In his famous, inaugural scene with Dorothy (Isabella Rossellini), he is both the “Daddy” who barks commands and brutally beats his female slave, and the “baby” who “wants to fuck”. In other words, he is both father and child, and whenever he switches roles he re-casts Dorothy as either daughter or mother (Creed 1988, p. 108). However, Booth hardly seems to master (except through sudden violence) this circuit of identity-switching and sadistic-masochistic polarities. His apparent dominance in this perverse relationship is complicated by his massive insecurity (he cannot bear to be looked at), his dependence on external stimulants (the blackly comic reveal of his oxygen mask) and his suggested impotence – as well as, in a later scene, a strong dose of homoerotic or polysexual desire. Homosexuality (repressed or otherwise) will rarely pop up again in Hopper’s subsequent screen persona. But childishness of various sorts will be ever-present – capped by one of his final credits, a voice performance for the animated children’s film Alpha and Omega (2010). In Bob Rafelson’s Black Widow, his cameo as a rich magnate has him hovering over a children’s toy whose controls he cannot comprehend, yelling: “I’m five fucking years old!” In Doublecrossed, he is so childlike that the film cannot see its way clear to show a scene of Seal as an apparently devoted father interacting with his kids. Paris Trout is structured around short, intense, mysterious scenes of Hopper standing over his senile, comatose mother, anxiously asking “Are you there?” – and finally deciding to kill her so as to “end all my connections with everything that came before”: an epitaph that would fit many Hopper characters. Is there pathos in Hopper’s ageing screen persona? Many of his roles in the ‘80s and ‘90s hark back to the type of parts Robert Mitchum took in his later years on screen: the once-glorious guy on a last run, taking a last chance on a last job, as he reflects on passing time and the waning of his energies. The crime genre is a natural locus for such character types, and Hopper specialised in playing the small-time, low-life crook or operator – the little man, the loser – in such films as James B. Harris’ Boiling Point (1993), which gave him an immortal exit line as he throws up his hands before a flank of cops and whines: “You never win!” Male pathos slid easily into male comedy near the closing stages of Hopper’s screen career. This gave him – especially for his age, and given his tortuous personal and professional history – a lightness that we do not associate with, for instance, the advanced age roles of Jason Robards or James Coburn. One striking index of the comic dimension of Hopper’s roles in the ‘90s and beyond: it is hard to think of another actor of his vintage who was glimpsed so often, and with so little glamour, in his underwear (Frankie the Fly, Carried Away, Eye of the Storm – and in Chasers, a cameo as a “perverted underwear salesman” [Maltin 1999, p. 233]). Hopper’s overall size served the comic side of his acting well: the quick, agile movements he executes of walking, bending, nodding, ducking and weaving build a quietly humorous and utterly infectious aura around his tough, little body (see the set-piece in Doublecrossed where Hopper works a room of stiff, static government agents). It is through such lightness that Hopper connects, even in the midst of otherwise dramatic roles, with that hovering quality of childishness. A line from a brief, autobiographical memoir by Hopper is resonant: “I was Errol Flynn and Abbott and Costello” (Hopper 1980). And
some trace of that beguiling amalgam I have evoked here – charmer
and clown, avant-garde hippie and consummate professional, rebel and
reactionary, innocent child and crazed pervert – is evident in the one, small,
seemingly lost Dennis Hopper role that
only emerged two years after his death, although filmed many years
beforehand:
as a garrulous representative of the New Hollywood circa 1972 in
Orson Welles’ The
Other Side of the Wind (2018,
as well as its bonus 2020 documentary offshoot Hopper/Welles)
– a film which stands as a ghostly, posthumous
triumph for many of its dear, departed participants. REFERENCES Barbara Creed, “A Journey Through Blue Velvet: Film, Fantasy and the Female Spectator”, New Formations, no. 6 (Winter 1988), pp. 97-117 Dennis Hopper, “Personal Bio” (1980), no longer online Dennis Hopper & Quentin Tarantino, “Blood Lust Snicker Snicker in Wide Screen”, Grand Street, no. 49 (Summer 1994), pp. 13-14 Jean-Marc Lalanne, “Léaud the first”, Cahiers du cinéma, no. 509 (January 1997), pp. 14-15 Leonard Maltin, Movie & Video Guide (Signet, 1999) Matthieu Orléan, Jean-Baptiste Thoret, Bernard Marcade & Pierre Evil, Dennis Hopper and the New Hollywood (Flammarion/Australian Centre for the Moving Image, 2010) John Pym (ed.), Time Out Film Guide (Penguin, 8th Edition 2000) William & Diane Routt, “Blue Velvet”, Cinema Papers, no. 62 (March 1987), p. 51 Sohnya Sayres, Anders Stephanson, Stanley Aronowitz & Fredric Jameson, The 60s Without Apology (University of Minnesota Press, 1984)
© Adrian Martin June 2016 (+ update) |
