Dennis Hopper, 1936-2010

Death of a “a C-list Method actor of the Fifties with anger-management issues”.

Dennis Hopper, who died yesterday at the age of 74, figured prominently in David Flusfeder's recent piece for the NS on the "outlaw cinema" of 1970s Hollywood. Flusfeder's article was organised around a photograph of Hopper at the 1971 Cannes Film Festival in the company of the directors Donald Cammell, Alejandro Jodorowsky and Kenneth Anger.

Hopper is described, memorably, as "a C-list Method actor of the Fifties with anger-management issues who is still cruising after his directorial debut, Easy Rider". Flusfeder identifies that film, which has loomed large in the media reaction to Hopper's death, as

the beginning of the second golden age of American cinema, "outlaw Hollywood". The astonishing success of Easy Rider had taught the studios that music and drugs and radicalism made for good box office. There was an audience appetite for a cinema of anxiety and meaning -- or, if not actual meaning, then at least a search for it, with a rock'n'roll soundtrack.

But Hopper's finest hour, as an actor at least, wasn't Easy Rider, nor Rebel Without a Cause nor Apocalypse Now; it was his performance as Tom Ripley in Wim Wenders's 1977 film The American Friend, an adaptation of Patricia Highsmith's novel Ripley's Game. In this scene, Ripley visits Derwatt, a painter-turned-forger played by the director Nicholas Ray (who had directed Hopper in Rebel more than 20 years earlier):

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

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On Wheels

A new poem by Patrick Mackie

The hills swarm and soften towards the end of the day just as
flames do in a fireplace as the evening
loosens and breaks open and lets out night.
A nasty, grotesque, impatient year ended,
and the new one will be bitter,
tired, opaque. Words wrangle in every inch of air,
their mouths wide open in stupid shock
at what they have just heard every time they hear anything. Venus,
though, blazes with heavy wobbles of albeit frozen
light. Brecht, who I like to call my
brother just as he called Shelley his,
has a short late poem where he sits by a roadside, waiting
while someone changes the wheel on his car,
watching with impatience, despite not liking
either the place that he is coming from or
the place that he is going to. We call it
connectivity when in truth it is just aggression
and imitation writ ever larger. Poems, though,
are forms of infinite and wry but also briskly
impatient patience. Brecht’s poem seems to end,
for instance, almost before you
can read it. It wheels. The goddess is just a big, bright
wilderness but then soon enough she clothes
herself again in the openness of night and I lose her.

Patrick Mackie’s latest collection, The Further Adventures Of The Lives Of The Saints, is published by CB Editions.

This article first appeared in the 18 May 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Age of Lies

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