Bukowski At Bellevue
1970, 60 Minutes, English, Black & White
(Screen Edge, 2004)

I guess the first logical thing to do when reviewing any recorded work of Mr. Bukowski is to lay out the raw, dirty details of his style, his work, and his attitude. “Buk” was a champion, or at least a chronicler, of the gritty side of life; his inspirations came from run-down inner-city missions, winos, whores, junkies, dirty cops, and otherwise unlamented, unlovable losers from the wrong side of the tracks. As early as 1962, he’d gone on record as saying that he thought the best poets were a thing of the past, even as he struggled to make a name for himself with that very muse. He wasn’t shy about taking on society, squares, or “The Man.” He knew that “... Mickey Mouse had a greater influence on the American public than Shakespeare, Milton, Dante, Rabelais, Shostakovich, Lenin, and/or Van Gogh ...”

He was an admitted con man, a drunk, a roustabout, a layabout, a larger than life, true-blue American character who worked every angle to keep a few bucks coming in (in one interview, he asked the reporter, “Do you think I could get 20 poets to chip in a buck a week to keep me out of jail?”) and wasn’t at all shy about laying down his experiences, thoughts, and bibulous verbal bombshells on the printed page. He wrote incessantly, whether it was his free-form poetry, weekly columns for underground newspapers (One of which, “Notes Of A Dirty Old Man,” earned him a nice thick FBI file), novels, and rants. He reckoned he’d never written a single line while sober, and figured his sudden “stardom” in the ’60s and ’70s was a total fluke. “I used to lay drunk in alleys,” he said, “and I probably will again.”

All of which is either very intriguing or very silly, depending on what interests you in life. If you’d rather stick your nose up in the air and pretend that the level of society Bukowski (and the very existence of chroniclers such as himself) wrote about doesn’t—and never did or will—exist, then you probably won’t understand or give a rat’s ass about this DVD. The fact that this particular beast could be waiting in some form or another outside your (or someone you love’s) door right this fucking minute won’t go away just because you refuse to believe it exists. If, on the other hand, you know all about the big bad wolf that is addiction/homelessness/mental illness/poverty, or you at least can admit it exists, you’ll find loads of wisdom-filled nuggets in this one-hour reading.

Born in 1920 (he passed away in 1994) in Andernach, Germany, “Buk” or “Hank” was brought to L.A. by his folks when he was three years old, and lived there for most of his life. He published more than 45 books of poetry and prose during his career, many of which are still available through Black Sparrow Press. At the time of this film, he was 50 years old. His hairline was receding, the alcohol had taken a toll on his craggy features, and his demeanor was that of a life-long heavy drinker. Yet he retained an almost animal attraction about his person, a wild-eyed, smirking, anti-Clark Gable who took a fiendish delight in lavishing his full attention upon every temptation he ever came across. That, ladies and gentlemen, was the Charles Bukowski who blew away a room full of wet behind the ears college kids back in 1970.

The film opens with no fanfare, no hoorahs, no phony bullshit. Bukowski is seated, with his notebooks and a thermos full of some refreshing beverage, in front of a cluttered classroom. The footage is shaky, grainy, and completely unprofessional. Exactly the kind of gritty visual/aural record “Buk” would probably have appreciated. As it was, this film would lay unnoticed for 18 years before someone dug it out and worked towards releasing it to the public. At any rate, the advantage of seeing, rather than just hearing, a genius wordsmith like Bukowski deliver some of his toughest lines, is unbeatable. From the dipping, doesy-doeing emotional expressions running hell-bent for leather across his face to the shy, almost clumsy way he searches his notes and pours his beverages, this footage brings out the humanity in this most human of writers in a way printed articles never could.

As he reads, he repeatedly apologizes for small verbal gaffes and minor reading errors, speaks in a calm, almost flat tone that belies the powerful, colorful verbiage he’s spewing, and visibly basks in the glow of impact when his words make a particular point to his young audience. Said audience probably wasn’t used to much of Bukowski’s subject matter, at least not delivered in such an intimate, live setting, either: featured poems at this reading include Soup, Cosmos And Tears, The Lesbian (about which he says in a quick aside, “I know that some of you have issues about this, but let me assure you that I’m no more prejudiced against lesbians than I am, say, homosexuals or...whiskey!” All to those reserved chuckles so inherent to the collegiate, but quite powerful, nonetheless), The Night I Killed Tommy (about a cheap lay in a dirty hotel room that ended with “Buk” smashing one of a thousand cockroaches on the wall who were observing his dirty deed—the ten dollar hooker hollers at him, “Hey! You killed Tommy!”), and the FBI-baiting I Wanted To Overthrow The Government.

For Bukowski fans, this collection is a true treasure, and one they’ll want to own and play for others repeatedly over the years to come. For the novice or the curious, this is essential viewing/listening for any healthy, knowledge-thirsty mind, just as the man’s books, stories, and columns are. Seriously, if you have even one moment’s hesitation about delving into the subject matter Mr. B. covers, YOU ARE THE PERSON IT WAS MEANT FOR!! Do yourselves a big fat favor—pick up this DVD, a bottle of cheap wine, and maybe a stick of muggles, and sit down for some serious schoolin’. This DVD is just as an important piece of American history as anything you’ll read about in any institutional textbook, anywhere, anytime.

Charles Bukowski not only covered the sleazy underbelly of America with honesty, realism, and grace, not only called out on the carpet the pious and preening members of a plastic society, but deep inside, genuinely believed that there’s still a chance for the human race to redeem itself: “Why these cliches, platitudes?” he once snapped at a naive reporter who’d dared to ask him if he thought the human race should just throw in the towel. “OK, well, I would say no—we do not abandon ship. I say, as corny as it may sound, through the strength and spirit and fire and dare and gamble of a few men in a few ways we can save the carcass of humanity from drowning. No light goes out until it goes out. Let’s fight as men, not rats. Period. No further addition.” Stick that in yer fusebox, eh? ‘Nuff said.

That’s it for me this time out, ladeez and gentz. Tune in next time for more reviews, rants, n’ raves, and until we meet again—make yer own damn news.

If you have local music news/gigs/CDs you’d like to see mentioned in this column, or you’d just like to complain that you’re in the Bukowski video as well, but that I neglected to mention you, send replies to: (temporary e-mail) jamescrouch_1@juno.com.