Howl (January 6th and 7th at the Cleveland Cinematheque)

[Howl screens Thursday January 6th at 6:45 pm and Friday January 7th at 9:30 pm]

Review by Pete Roche

I recall studying—and not completely understanding—Allen Ginsberg’s Howl back in college.  Reprinted in the Norton Anthology of English Literature, the epic-length Beat poem lamented how its author saw “the best minds of [his] generation destroyed by madness.”

Of course, few appreciated back in 1955 that Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady were great thinkers—much less radicals—and were counted among those “saintly motorcyclists” portrayed by friend Ginsberg in the seminal work.  Fewer still bothered cracking open the Jewish poet’s stream-of-conscious canticle Howl and Other Poems when first published by Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s subversive little San Francisco bookstore. At least not until Ferlinghetti (and, indirectly, Ginsberg) was tried for pandering obscenity on account of Howl’s many allusions to genitalia, sex, and the “ecstatic copulation” of the author’s wayfaring, drug-addled contemporaries.

Created a half-century later by indie Oscar winners Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman, Howl the movie explores Ginsberg’s early life, juxtaposing black-and-white footage of the troubled young writer (played by James Franco) with later scenes (in color) from Judge Horn’s courtroom, where Ferlinghetti’s white knight defense attorney (Jon Hamm) engages a prickly prosecutor (David Strathairn) over Howl’s social import—or lack thereof.

Franco glows in the flashbacks, wherein Ginsberg discusses his craft with an unseen interviewer (a microphone and reel-to-reel machine are glimpsed in the foreground).  Surveying the best—and worst—times of his life, the poet remembers how torn he felt over his latent homosexuality and burgeoning love for Peter Orlovsky. He tells how his mother’s schizophrenia (and subsequent lobotomy) informed his work—and how his own doctor encouraged him to pursue writing full time.  He reveals that Carl Solomon, a fellow psychiatric patient and confidante during Ginsberg’s institutionalized years, became the inspiration for large portions of Howl.  Solomon—repeatedly subjected to electric shock therapy—became the figurative “lamb” representing an entire generation of artists, musicians, druggies, and societal outcasts led to slaughter.  “I’m with you in Rockland,” Ginsberg repeatedly exclaims from small stage.

Interspersed among scenes of Ginsberg debuting his poem in the smoky confines of the Six Gallery and the cross-examinations of expert witnesses (Jeff Daniels, Treat Williams) are animated interpretations of the poem's three parts.  These cartoons—as metaphorical as Ginsberg’s verses—recall the bizarre, sex-charged, anti-establishmentarian animation of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, what with its legion of children being marched into the bullheaded incinerator (Moloch!) of the military-industrial complex. 

Swirling, surreal, alternately gorgeous and repellent, these snippets constitute a refreshing visual manifest of Ginsberg’s mind-fodder—and of the Beat ethos itself.  There as many telling images about humanity (specifically, Americans) on display in this picture as in Ginsberg’s suggestive opus.  Imbuing the phallic flora, hypodermic-hungry vagrants, and anamorphic bodies writhing in backseat coitus is a profound sense of disconnect between haves and have-nots, between conformists and innovators. Perhaps it was recognition of Ginsberg’s critique (and condemnation) of that disconnect that prompted Judge Horn to rule Howl was indeed possessed of literary merit—and therefore not obscene.  3 out of 4 stars.