by Pete Hamill
Eight years after Volcano’s publication, Lowry and his wife, Margerie, were finally home in England, living in a cottage in Sussex. But home didn’t provide peace; in 1955 and 1956, Lowry was committed to two different London hospitals for psychiatric treatment, in an attempt to combat his alcoholism. By this time, Lowry had failed three times to kill himself, twice to kill his wife. At one point, a lobotomy was even considered. The psychiatrists and the hospitals eventually gave up. After these failures, Lowry returned to the cottage in Sussex, where he wrote sporadically. On June 26, 1957, he had one final row with Margerie and threatened to kill her. She ran to a neighbor’s house for refuge and spent the night. Lowry was found the next morning in his bedroom, a plate of dinner scattered on the floor, along with an almost empty gin bottle and a broken bottle of orange squash. He’d swallowed more than twenty tablets of sodium amytal. It was a dingy way to die. He was forty-seven and was buried in the appropriately named town of Ripe.
The scene is Mexico, the meeting place, according to some, of mankind itself, pyre of Bierce and springboard of Hart Crane, the age-old arena of racial and political conflicts of every nature, and where a colorful native people of genius have a religion that we can roughly describe as one of death, so that it is a good place, at least as good as Lancashire, or Yorkshire, to set our drama of a man’s struggle between the powers of darkness and light. Its geographical remoteness from us, as well as the closeness of its problems to our own, will assist the tragedy each in its own way. We can see it as the world itself, or the Garden of Eden, or both at once. Or we can see it as a kind of timeless symbol of the world on which we can place the Garden of Eden, the Tower of Babel, and indeed anything else we please. It is paradisal: It is unquestionably infernal. It is, in fact, Mexico.
— Malcolm Lowry to Jonathan Cape
January 2, 1946
Almost from the beginning, there was talk of a movie. This was itself surprising. The best movies generally come from pulp material, where action, narrative, character exist on the surface of the work; literary masterpieces, with their refinements of prose style and their deep interior lives, tend to resist adaptation to film. But Under the Volcano had two major attractions.
One was its principal character: the Consul. His name was Geoffrey Firmin, the despairing, alcoholic British envoy in the Mexican city of Quahnahuac (Lowry’s name for Cuernavaca). Eleven of the novel’s twelve chapters take place on the Day of the Dead, 1938, when the Consul goes on one final drunken odyssey that ends, as all tragedies do, in death. There are other characters: the film director Jacques Laruelle; Yvonne, the Consul’s estranged wife and a former film actress, who has returned to Mexico in one final attempt to rescue the Consul from damnation; Hugh, the Consul’s half brother, who shares his belief in the values of Western civilization, but actually does something about them, going off to the Spanish Civil War. Yvonne has betrayed the Consul by sleeping with Laruelle and Hugh, and is a critical character in the drama. But the novel belongs to the Consúl, and his intense, brooding, ironic, sometimes comic, and ultimately tragic self-absorption. He is a character, like Lear, that actors would kill for the chance to portray.
The second protagonist is Mexico itself. Lowry’s volcanoes rise to heaven; the barranca lies behind the villas and cantinas, winding through Quahnahuac, choked with the rotting garbage of history. On the Day of the Dead, the Consul is faced with a fearful choice: escape to heaven or descent into hell, and he lives his last hours in a private purgatory. Mexico is a perfect setting for such a drama. And almost no foreigners have evoked that country with such chilling accuracy as Lowry. He and the Consul traverse the cruel landscape together, and then abruptly face the abyss.
All of this is told in a way that has always attracted movie people. In fact, Lowry himself longed to write the screen version of his own novel. Frank Taylor, a friend who went to work for MGM in 1949, told Lowry he was working on a film of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Tender Is the Night. Lowry, perhaps thinking a successful production of Fitzgerald’s novel would lead to an MGM commission for Under the Volcano, bestowed on Taylor an unsolicited script of Tender Is the Night. It was about five hundred pages long, and Taylor described it in 1964 as “a total filmic evocation — complete with critical remarks, attached film theory, directions to actors, fashions, automobiles: The only things like it are the James Agee scripts.” Neither project happened.
In 1962, the actor Zachary Scott optioned Under the Volcano, but couldn’t get it made, and after his death in 1965, his widow sold the rights to the Hakim brothers (Robert, Raymond, and Andre), who wanted Luis Buñuel to direct. This began a long, tangled story of hirings and firings, scripts and revisions and announcements of productions that never materialized. Buñuel gave way to Jules Dassin, who, in turn, was replaced by Joseph Losey. The Hakims’ option lapsed; they sued the Lowry estate and lost. Then one Luis Barranco acquired the rights. More scripts. Even Gabriel Garcia Marquez took a crack at a treatment, as did Carlos Fuentes; directors Ken Russell and Jerzy Skolimowski were involved at other points. When the professionals failed, amateurs tried: Students read the novel and wrote adaptations: cultists, kabalists, professors, actors, all tried to transform their totemic novel into a workable movie script. And many of these versions arrived eventually in the hands of director John Huston.
“When I think back,” Huston says, “there seem to’ve been dozens of them. Hundreds of them.”
At first glance, such casting seems odd. Huston’s special talent has always been for the spare and the laconic, as if either Hemingway or Marcus Aurelius were forever present behind his shoulder. There is very little self-pity in Huston or his work; compared with him, Lowry is a babbling whiner. But there are several strains in Huston’s work that do display an affinity with those in Lowry’s. Starting with High Sierra (for which he co-wrote the screenplay from a novel by W. R. Burnett), through The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The Red Badge of Courage, Moby Dick, The Night of the Iguana, The Misfits, Fat City, The Man Who Would Be King, and others, Huston has been fascinated with doomed heroes. These men (they are almost never women) accept fate stoically, knowing that for them it is too late to change or compromise; in an odd way, the Consul is one of them.
Huston has also been intricately involved with Mexico. As a young man, or so the story goes, he rode as a cavalry officer with one of the Mexican revolutionary armies. One of his first notable screenplays (written with Wolfgang Reinhardt and Aeneas Mackenzie) was for Juarez (1939), when Huston was a contract writer at Warners. The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and The Night of the Iguana were filmed in Mexico, and since 1974, Huston has lived in a rambling house in Puerto Vallarta. It is easy to imagine Huston and Lowry wandering the streets of Cuernavaca together, visiting its cantinas and brothels, speaking of prizefighters and Mexican gods and the tragic end of the Spanish Republic. But the two men never met. The scripts for Under the Volcano continued to be written, following Huston to his estate in Ireland through the fifties and sixties, to locations around the world, and finally to Puerto Vallarta. None of them were any good.
Then a script arrived by a young man named Guy Gallo.
Although I have had a certain amount of youthful success as a writer of slow and slippery blues it is as much as my life is worth to play anything in the house.
— Malcolm Lowry to Conrad Aiken
March 13, 1929
Guy Gallo is twenty-eight years old, soft voiced, black haired, and handsome. He is also a good whiskey drinker. On this day, he is sitting on a crude wooden box on a path cut into the side of a hill in the village of Metepec, a dozen miles from Cuernavaca. Across the path, perched on the edge of a steep barranca, is a reconstruction of the Farolito, Lowry’s mythical cantina-whorehouse, where the Consul comes to his squalid end. The infantry of a movie location — technicians, grips, actors, drivers — seems to be everywhere; trailers jam a side road; horses whinny in an improvised corral. Behind Gallo, standing on a hill, their flat Indian faces as impassive as masks, a f
amily of Mexicans watches.
Gallo started writing plays at Harvard, and had two produced. “I went on to the Yale School of Drama, to get a doctorate. At some point during that year, I began to think about Under the Volcano. I’d heard of the book before, of course, but it wasn’t in any course work I’d had, and I hadn’t read it. Then I saw this survey of maybe twenty-five or thirty writers, in the New York Times Book Review, asking them for their favorite books and why, and Lowry’s book was on a lot of the lists. So I went out and bought the book and read it. About three months later, I had this meeting with Paul Bluhdorn, an independent producer who was a friend of a friend, and started talking about Under the Volcano as a possible project. And he said, ‘Well, yeah …’ It wasn’t as if it were preproduction — there was no ironey — it was more a friendly challenge than anything else. But it became a kind of carrot that was dangled in front of me. That’s before we knew how complicated the rights situation was.”
Gallo then went to work. He read Lowry’s novel closely, wrote several critical papers on it, made a bony structural outline. Bluhdorn then told him about a possible producer from Mexico. Could Gallo fill in the skeletal outline, for presentation to this Mexican producer? “It sort of seemed silly to write a prose treatment of a novel,” Gallo says, “so I wrote the screenplay very, very quickly, trying to give Bluhdorn something to sell.”
But then it turned out that the rights were not available, and Bluhdorn lost interest. Gallo put the script away, continued with his schoolwork at Yale, arid wrote two original screenplays. Then his name was given to Michael Fitzgerald, the son of poet and translator Robert Fitzgerald, and the producer of Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood, which Huston had directed. Fitzgerald was looking for a writer on another Huston film, and wanted to see some samples of Gallo’s work. Gallo told him he had the original screenplays and his version of Under the Volcano; he’d be glad to send them to Fitzgerald.
“Fitzgerald said no, don’t send Under the Volcano,” Gallo says. “Just send me the original work. So I thought Volcano was dead again.” Then a couple of weeks later, Gallo got a phone call from Fitzgerald. “He had mentioned Volcano to John Huston. Michael had never, ever read it, but just mentioned it to John, something on the order of, ‘Still another version of Under the Volcano/ And John wanted to see it. I sent along a copy and that’s when things started happening.”
Gallo’s screenplay was a stripped-down and simplified version of Lowry’s novel. The novel begins on the Day of the Dead in 1939, with Laruelle remembering the events of the Day of the Dead the year before, when borh the Consul and his wife were killed. In his screenplay, Gallo removes Laruelle as a character, merging some of him with Hugh, making a more cleanly structured triangle of the Consul, Yvonne, and Hugh. He gets rid of the 1939 chapter, and has all the action take place in present time, 1938.
“Basically, it was a structural decision,” Gallo says. “If you can do it in one day, how do you do ít? In one of his letters, Lowry talks about his version of Tender Is the Night, and says, when he delivers it, that ’we left out enough for a Puccini opera, but here it is!’ That gave me some confidence. As a writer reading his work, and thinking of it as a film, already the premise was: Something had to go. I mean, you couldn’t do everything. So it became a matter of my reading of the novel, and what could go without a loss. Lowry understood the difference between the two forms, and if he could do a different Scott Fitzgerald, perhaps I could do it to Lowry.”
For Gallo, the task wasn’t simply a matter of chopping away at the book; first it had to be understood. “You see, you gotta distinguish between what appeals to you about Under the Volcano as a writer, which is the lyricism and the complexities of the pattern, and what appeals to you thematically, which is actually the story. It’s difficult to imagine this story without the narrative strategy that he employs to tell it. There is a strong, central thematic line in this book that is not impervious to dramatization: the character of the Consul, and that very central, dramatic issue of betrayal and the times, the historical inevitability. … In the novel you get to the kernel of the story through many different avenues, and the task you have to figure out, early on, is that you can’t duplicate those avenues.”
Gallo remembers working with Huston as if it were an intense seminar with an old master, which, in a way, it was. “There are a lot of things in the book — images, good images, startling images — but whenever I would have anything like that in the script, the question would always boil down to: ‘It’s very good, but what does it mean?* And the answer isn’t: ‘Well, this is a reference to Faustus, and that’s an adumbration of this particular fall and it’s prepared and it has to be.…’ What does it mean in terms of present tense? What does it mean for our character? And our situation? And if it didn’t do both something for the present tense and something for the overall structure, then it wasn’t doing enough.”
Inside the Farolito, someone yells, “Silencio, por favor!” The Mexican family on the hill behind Gallo has yet to say a word.
And now at last, though the feeling had perhaps been growing on him all morning, he knew what it felt like, the intolerable impact of this knowledge that might have come at twenty-two, but had not, that ought to at least have come at twenty-five, but still somehow had not, this knowledge, hitherto associated only with people tottering on the brink of the grave and A. E. Housman, that one could not be young forever — that, indeed, in the twinkling of an eye, one was not young any longer.
— Malcolm Lowry
Under the Volcano
Here is John Huston, seventy-seven years old, five times married, director of thirty-eight motion pictures, actor in dozens more, winner of awards, storyteller, poker player, horseman, long-ago prizefighter, legend. He is in the Farolito, his squinting eyes taking in everything. He sees an ancient Mexican man playing with a four-piece band, a man so old he remembers seeing Halley’s comet flash through the skies in the first year of the Mexican Revolution. He sees nine whores, a transvestite, a dwarf. Along one wall is a bar, and behind the bar is Indio Fernandez, one of the greatest Mexican directors, now almost eighty, a survivor of prisons and gunfights, acting in this movie as a favor to the man everybody calls John. Behind the camera is Gabriel Figueroa, the fine Mexican cinematographer, another old comrade. Huston looks at them all, suggests a change in a whore’s costume, adjusts the angle of the camera.
There is, of course, a judgmental line on John Huston these days: He doesn’t work at directing any more; he has the job done for him, looks on, and cynically picks up his fee. In the five days that I watched him direct Under the Volcano, the line turned out to be as false as most lines, political or artistic. He was involved in every shot; he cared about the details of setting and performance and the placement of the camera.
On this day of shooting, he seems to be everywhere, tall, slightly hunched, oddly frail, so bony now that his hands seem immense, like drawings by Egon Schiele. He has had a heart bypass and he wheezes from emphysema. But John Huston is not yet old.
During a break, he talks about what finally brought him to this movie in this place: “People had been sending me scripts since, oh, not long after the war. For some reason, people connected me to this book, and most of the scripts were, not surprisingly, pretty bad. The book attracted an esoteric element, the astrologists, the numerologists, the occultists and kabalists; each one found something of themselves in this material. Of course, almost anyone can find something of themselves in this one; the mirror is very clear and clean. But one after the other, these opaque scripts kept arriving. I admired the book very much, not for the same reasons that all readers do. I objected to — how shall I say this? — Lowry’s taking every experience and writing it into his own use. Yes, just acquiring anything that has happened and putting it into the context of the book. And some of it was nonsense, absurd. For instance, there’s a poster about boxing; it’s about a boxing match. And in one biography, he’s asked about this, and said it symbolized the C
onsul’s conflict with Yvonne. Well, that’s bullshit.”
He pauses, and whispers something to Tommy Shaw, his production manager and assistant director; they go back to The Night of the Iguana together, and are friends. Shaw nods; Huston returns to the conversation. “Across the years, there were some fairly good scripts,” Huston says, covering his mouth to smother a cough. “But none of them had the solution to the picture. None offered the hope for a motion picture.” Pause. “Until Gallo’s came along.” Pause. “He had simplified it.”
Huston smiles. “I had a conversation a few months ago with Garcia Marquez, whom I’d met for the first time, and he had done a script — of which he thoroughly disapproved — and we were talking about some of the possible solutions to the novel, which he admired very much. We discovered we were in complete agreement. And by this time I was well into it with Guy Gallo. In his script, all those literary curtains had been pulled aside, Lowry’s mists had been blown away. He got through to the central idea, without all the literary persiflage.”
A number of Huston’s movies, beginning with The Maltese Falcon, have been adapted from novels. How did this project differ? “Well, each one was different, of course. In the case of the Falcon, I didn’t have to cut through anything. There it all was. It was practically a film script in novel form. Under the Volcano is quite the opposite. I have great admiration for the novel, and there are those who put it on the same plane as Ulysses and Waste Land and The Magic Mountain and so on. I don’t think of it in those terms. But I think it’s very fine. One of the best novels of our generation, surely. Even though there is a cult, yes, that maybe endows it with mystic qualities that I don’t appreciate, or fail to appreciate.”
