BRUCE ROBINSON AND I
An interview with the writer and creator of Withnail and I (2007)
THE PASSENGER
©AlexP
A drive to the beach with Iggy Pop (2006)
EVEL KNIEVEL
©Simon Clay
Sofa shopping with the King of the Stuntmen (1999)
It's often said that every other unsolicited manuscript on a publisher's slush pile is an autobiographical novel opening with a badly-written hangover scene.
The classic British film Withnail and I, which began life as an unpublished autobiographical novel, is one long hangover: The stale dog-end of the Sixties as seen through the bloodshot eyes of two potless, perennially resting actors; the acidly pompous Withnail and the longsuffering Marwood ('I'). Exhausted by their soul-sapping existence in a freezing flat, surviving from one booze bender to the next, they embark upon a disastrous drive to the country.
It, however, is brilliantly, beautifully written; the British Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas. Two decades after its release, Withnail remains as grimly funny as ever. And it is, without doubt, the greatest British road movie ever made.
"I like movies that travel, don't you?" says the real Marwood, the man who wrote, directed and, back in the long, cold winter of 1969, actually lived Withnail and I: Bruce Robinson.
A leather flying jacket hangs from Bruce's tall, bony frame. His hair is long and grey and clamped to his temples are a pair of Hunter S. Thompson-issue, yellow-tinted aviator shades which, he will later tell me, make him look 'like a praying mantis'. They do, a little. In a good way.
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THE PASSENGER
©AlexP
A drive to the beach with Iggy Pop (2006)
An open-top Rolls-Royce burning to death on a crowded public beach. The scene could almost have been contrived as a metaphor for rock'n'roll itself. Appropriate then that the owner of the self-immolating Corniche was none other than the living embodiment of rock'n'roll, Mr James Newell Osterberg: Iggy Pop.
"It was a very expensive car, nearly US$200,000. I'd never spent money like that on a vehicle before. It was a Corniche S. Fuck, it's got a turbo in it. Fast as shit. I felt like James Bond," drawls Iggy, recounting the story in his cavernous, instantly recognisable baritone.
"I have trouble listening to music in cars. I go off and get arrested, or do something..." he continues. "I was listening to Rubber Soul by the Beatles. So maybe I didn't notice something I shoulda noticed. When I got to the beach a little black smoke came out of the motor and I thought 'Whoa!' and had the instinct not to open the hood which was apparently the right thing.
"The beach I go to is a super cheap-ass beach, so all these immigrants from
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EVEL KNIEVEL
©Simon Clay
Sofa shopping with the King of the Stuntmen (1999)
I'm in the passenger seat of an Oldsmobile hire car. Evel Knievel is driving. We're off to buy a new couch...
Dammit, someone must've slipped LSD into my coffee. Or maybe it was that cheese I ate before I went to bed last night. Advanced symptoms of jet lag? No, hold on, this is really happening. I really am going furniture shopping with the King of the Stuntmen. This is too weird.
Back in the Seventies, Knievel was a global icon; Elvis on a bike. In my school playground, he was God. No, he was much cooler than that. God may have created the universe in six days but if the Almighty jumped thirteen buses on a Harley-Davidson, the Bible didn't mention it.
A couple of hours ago, I met Knievel -- now 60 and battling against liver disease -- at his apartment block in Clearwater, Florida. For a man who was given six months to live eight months ago, he looks pretty good. Better than recent photographs I'd seen, certainly.
Dressed like an old gunslinger in shades, black Levis and absurdly expensive-looking alligator cowboy boots, he was busy signing autographs in the foyer when I arrived with photographer Simon Clay. These days Knievel is gaunt and thin, with silver-white hair brushed back from his craggy, Mount Rushmore face. But he's also alert, tanned and wears a diamond ring so huge you could use it to drill for oil. His huge hands are bony and gnarled but his handshake is oddly gentle. When your name's Evel Knievel, you don't need to crush a guy's knuckles to make an impression...
It's Saturday morning and the new couch will be a surprise gift for his 28-year-old fiancee Krystal. Evel's driving our humble rental car because his famous customised Aston Martin is away at the menders.
"I get it back in two weeks time," he says,"They've been working on it for four months. It's getting new tyres, new drive-line and new transmission with overdrive."
"My Aston will outrun any Aston ever built. It's a beautiful car. It's got a 502 big block Chevy engine with fuel injection The only motor that's better than a Chevy big block is a Ferrari V12.
"It's the only Aston in the world like it. I've put side pipes on it and it's got a special spoiler on the back. It's got all new electrics. Thank God and the Greyhound Bus Company that Lucas stuff is gone! Aston made some horrible mistakes when they made that car. It's full of junk that shouldn't be there!"
"OK. Let's buy a couch!" says the American Daredevil, striding through the sofa store door like Billy The Kid swaggering into a saloon.
"Whaddya think of this one?" he asks, stretching out on a comfy-looking white leather recliner.
"Oh, pretty good," I reply, doing my best to sound like a connoisseur of fine furniture and failing miserably.
"This is an orthopaedic couch," says a sales assistant, "It's designed to mimic the natural curve of the spine."
"It won't fit mine," is Knievel's bone dry, quick-fire reply, "I broke it four times."
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Dammit, someone must've slipped LSD into my coffee. Or maybe it was that cheese I ate before I went to bed last night. Advanced symptoms of jet lag? No, hold on, this is really happening. I really am going furniture shopping with the King of the Stuntmen. This is too weird.
Back in the Seventies, Knievel was a global icon; Elvis on a bike. In my school playground, he was God. No, he was much cooler than that. God may have created the universe in six days but if the Almighty jumped thirteen buses on a Harley-Davidson, the Bible didn't mention it.
A couple of hours ago, I met Knievel -- now 60 and battling against liver disease -- at his apartment block in Clearwater, Florida. For a man who was given six months to live eight months ago, he looks pretty good. Better than recent photographs I'd seen, certainly.
Dressed like an old gunslinger in shades, black Levis and absurdly expensive-looking alligator cowboy boots, he was busy signing autographs in the foyer when I arrived with photographer Simon Clay. These days Knievel is gaunt and thin, with silver-white hair brushed back from his craggy, Mount Rushmore face. But he's also alert, tanned and wears a diamond ring so huge you could use it to drill for oil. His huge hands are bony and gnarled but his handshake is oddly gentle. When your name's Evel Knievel, you don't need to crush a guy's knuckles to make an impression...
It's Saturday morning and the new couch will be a surprise gift for his 28-year-old fiancee Krystal. Evel's driving our humble rental car because his famous customised Aston Martin is away at the menders.
"I get it back in two weeks time," he says,"They've been working on it for four months. It's getting new tyres, new drive-line and new transmission with overdrive."
"My Aston will outrun any Aston ever built. It's a beautiful car. It's got a 502 big block Chevy engine with fuel injection The only motor that's better than a Chevy big block is a Ferrari V12.
"It's the only Aston in the world like it. I've put side pipes on it and it's got a special spoiler on the back. It's got all new electrics. Thank God and the Greyhound Bus Company that Lucas stuff is gone! Aston made some horrible mistakes when they made that car. It's full of junk that shouldn't be there!"
"OK. Let's buy a couch!" says the American Daredevil, striding through the sofa store door like Billy The Kid swaggering into a saloon.
"Whaddya think of this one?" he asks, stretching out on a comfy-looking white leather recliner.
"Oh, pretty good," I reply, doing my best to sound like a connoisseur of fine furniture and failing miserably.
"This is an orthopaedic couch," says a sales assistant, "It's designed to mimic the natural curve of the spine."
"It won't fit mine," is Knievel's bone dry, quick-fire reply, "I broke it four times."
More...