Quintessential Jack

by Scott Edwards

  The media serves as both reference point and recurring target for Nicholson and Rafelson. A battle scene is interrupted as an off-screen photographer’s voice asks soldier Peter Tork to hold his pose (“This is for Life”) and a car dealership television ad shows a “666” price tag. Victor Mature controls everything, in a god-like matter, through use of a remote control.

  With dangerous irony, the teenyboppers’ fave group leads a stadium’s crowd in a chant in favor of war. By no means a Country Joe “Fish Cheer,” each Monkee leaps and yells their respective part in “give me a…. W … A … R…!”—an odd chant that figuratively spells several more lost years in Vietnam. In the battle scene, football star Ray Nitschke personifies the nation’s stubborn and mindless continuation of that war by relentlessly ramming his helmeted head into the wall of a trench, further symbolizing the conflict by pummeling the much smaller Tork over and over again with his superior might. “We’re number one!” he says. Peter eventually ends up with Nitschke’s gold football helmet, which happens to be similar to that worn by Jack in Easy Rider, instead of his own government-issued model.

  Consumerism takes a beating as Timothy Carey lectures the group on the millions to be had through merchandising, urging them to market their “byproducts” and that “the phallic thing is happening,” the perfect business advice from an out-of-control, well-armed lunatic in a huge cape and Pilgrim’s hat to a pop band marketed toward teenage girls. In the first draft of the script, Carey’s character, Lord High’n’Low, was called “Dernsie,” leading to some speculation that Bruce Dern was intended for the part. When I asked Dern, he responded perfectly, “Well, that’s my name. Tim Carey was better nuts than I was. He was fabulous.”31

  Coca-Cola kept Micky going in the desert, but when he finds the soda machine empty, he responds in the most rational way by blowing it to smithereens with a tank. Again, consumerism and the urge to consume corporate goods becomes a driver, even in the middle of the desert. It’s also a tip of the hat to a scene in Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove in which Colonel “Bat” Guano shoots a Coke machine to get change for an emergency phone call attempting to save the world, only to be thanked by getting squirted with a stream of the beverage.

  The mechanism of society and its impersonal treatment of workers has a Modern Times feel to it, particularly the juxtaposition of the bucolic nature scenes in the “As We Go Along” musical interlude against a series of quick cuts of billboards with a harsh sound effect of an oil rig pump. In the manufacturing plant, everyone turns their backs on safety and ignores accidents. Dehumanizing through modern “advances” and technological progress seems to trouble Nicholson, for yet another variant on fatalism.

  Making a joke out of it, a screaming jumper (June Fairchild) on a rooftop is reduced to entertainment and friendly wagers (“Ten dollars says she will”). Some of the contradictions and unexpected reveals are funny. A cop hassles the long-haired “weirdos” for no good reason, with the guys reacting with formal and respectful cooperation, only to be rebuffed and told to shut up and move along. Later, the same cop is shown to be a prancing aspiring stripper in the studio’s rest room.

  A swami speaks engagingly about conceptual belief, philosophizing that we cannot meaningfully distinguish between what’s real and what’s vividly imagined. He is framed in medium close-up and close-up, within a vague setting that’s made more atmospheric by a hypnotic mist, perhaps rows of burning incense—only to find that he’s just a guy in a towel in a sauna. Sonny Liston breaks the mood of enlightenment and serenity by asking if anyone wants more steam!

  The swami’s speech could be taken as an allegory suggesting there may be no difference between being inside or outside of the black box, so when the group is trapped again, Peter recreates the imparting of wisdom. However, when he gets to the sauna swami’s self-effacing conclusion (“Why should anyone listen to me, as I know nothing?”), Davy does not take the question rhetorically and goes ape shit, comically demanding to know why they’re sitting around, stuck in a box, listening to someone who admits he knows nothing. His rage manifests itself in attacking the box to help them escape … for the time being.

  Coming full circle, we traipse through all of the vignettes shown in screens at the beginning and relive the cycle of escape and capture, before ending up back in the desert where everyone in the film is lined up like having your life flash before your eyes. The Coke machine returns as well, standing tall like a Kubrick monolith to show the invincibility of corporate consumerism, before it’s blown up again. And, in the end, the Monkees are given the choice-without-choice to commit suicide in order to get away, hereby committing career suicide to escape their plastic lives.

  In Nicholson’s script, time and space are somewhat fluid, taking the characters and the viewers through a trip in the whirlwind in which they move in circles, repeat and flash back and flash forward. At the time the film was made, there had been some controversy about the group members expecting—and never receiving—writing credit based on their contributions at Ojai.

  However, in viewing the Criterion Collection’s 2010 box set America Lost and Found: The BBS Story and its Blu-ray update of the film with participant commentaries, I noticed that any time a member of the group mentioned the script, particularly Micky Dolenz, they always mentioned Nicholson and never referred to Rafelson. When I asked Peter Tork about this, he diplomatically responded, “I have no information as to which part of the script was Bob’s and which part was Jack’s so I can’t possibly comment.”32

  Nesmith was still circumspect, yet made the point: “Well, there may be some justice to that. What can I say?”33 He further described what he felt was behind Nicholson’s success with the project: “It was almost like he was immune in some sense to the proceedings and just took down certain ideas and he framed it. He really was the critical path of the whole thing, in my estimation. And he’s a prince of a guy.”34

  Head stands as Nicholson’s screenwriting masterwork, a time capsule of commentary which mirrors the culture within a musical presentation that delivers on multiple levels. There’s surface entertainment and humor; social meaning that’s pro-freedom, pro-sex, pro-drugs vs. anti-war, anti-consumerism, anti-establishment; a deconstruction of Hollywood prototypes and of a pop phenomenon; and a stylistic achievement that is impressionistic in nature, taking the audience between what’s real and what’s imagined in a mesmerizing trip that still keeps viewers—and the band members themselves—guessing and wondering.

  Nicholson remains justly proud of his work, gushing, “I co-wrote Head. Nobody ever saw that, man, but I saw it. A hundred fifty-eight million times. I loved it. Filmically, it’s the best rock’n’roll movie ever made. I mean, it’s anti–rock’n’roll. Has no form. Unique in structure, which is very hard to do in movies.”35

  As a bonus, we also get a glimpse into the future of some then-unknowns. In a diner scene featuring female impersonator T.C. Jones as a waitress, the Monkees are treated as pariahs, much like the hippie bikers and their lawyer companion in the redneck diner in Easy Rider. When the scene breaks and the director yells “Cut,” we see three figures representing the future of cinema (Rafelson, Nicholson and Dennis Hopper) interacting with the band, which at the time represented the superstars of pop culture.

  Nicholson was also responsible for the film’s wondrous soundtrack, in effect “writing” this counterculture tribute to all things McLuhan while employing the audio cut-up techniques of William S. Burroughs.

  As Tork explained, “Jack arranged and assembled the album…. I thought Jack did a fabulous job putting the record together, because he was curious and he’s an intense artist, as everybody knows.”36 Nesmith expanded on this: “[Nicholson] was fascinated by the technology. If you know Jack, he has a wicked sense … and he’s very, very fast. He contributed mightily to everything, but artistically wasn’t the director or producer, but he led with so many important contributions.”37

  According to Head soundtrack compilation–producer
and Monkees archivist Andrew Sandoval, “Jack went through the mag reels for the film and layered the audio in collage fashion. He had an interesting feel for stereo, and the overall concept of superimposing sounds over sounds was very fashion-forward.” Sandoval called it “Pre–‘Revolution #9’ (referring to the Beatles’ experimental track on their White Album) and many years before the mash-up.”38

  Tork commented on Nicholson’s avant garde approach to creative juxtaposition on the album: “There’s this wonderful little bit where [Frank] Zappa, in that one scene, says to Davy, ‘You’re pretty white.’ And they’ve got Michael going, ‘Yeah, the same thing goes for Christmas.’ That’s from a completely different place in the film. So creative, I thought, you know, and the stuff, the soundtrack, the effects.”39

  Nicholson took the music, the dialogue and a variety of sound bites from Hollywood oldies and horror flicks, to create a completely independent work of art. The soundtrack itself plays as its own movie, a continuous sonic montage broken only by the original LP’s two-sided format. Though Sandoval reports that “there really aren’t any other notes and sadly Jack has never fully gone on record about his process,”40 we can still marvel at how he built this cryptic and multilayered work.

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  Following the breakthrough of Easy Rider and Five Easy Pieces, and three years after Head, Nicholson was able to parlay his newfound industry strength toward his directorial debut with Drive, He Said. He directed it. He co-produced with Steve Blauner and Harold Gittes. He co-wrote the screenplay with Jeremy Larner, an adaptation of Larner’s 1964 novel, with uncredited assistance from Robert Towne and Terrence Malick.

  The film follows familiar Nicholson themes of fatalism, featuring main characters trying to escape their trapped conditions. As with The Trip and Head, this work favors sexuality and personal freedom. Like the latter, authority and the Vietnam War are obvious targets.

  A basketball player is disillusioned about playing a game and he wants out. His roommate has been called up for the draft, and definitely wants out. A professor’s wife is having an affair with the basketball player, so she may want out of the marriage or the affair or both. Even she probably doesn’t know, though she’s more emotionally developed than the jock or the teach. They all feel trapped, experiencing a helplessness that views escape as difficult or doubtful; an oppression that causes rebellion as much out of frustration as out of a legitimate attempt to escape; and a malaise that’s a natural reaction to their plight; as well as an underlying seeping away of hope. These are three characters in search of a future.

  Hector, played by newcomer William Tepper (who was chosen due to his basketball skills), is the college team’s star player. He’s a celebrity on campus. The young coeds love him. He doesn’t have to worry about the draft, it seems, because of his status.

  Gabriel, portrayed by Michael Margotta (from the campus unrest classic The Strawberry Statement) is a protest leader. His theater group stages a theatrical stunt, commandeering one of the big games by turning off all the arena lights and taking over its public address system, convincing the teams, the school officials and the fans that they are all under siege by the police state. The public relations “happening” culminates in a mock execution of an Asian protestor by a fake soldier with a fake gun that shoots a flag instead of a bullet. The scene recreates documentary footage of a Viet Cong’s point-blank execution used so shockingly in Head.

  Olive, Karen Black from Easy Rider and Five Easy Pieces, is a professor’s wife who carries on with Hector, more or less in the open. She may be doing so more out of boredom and dissatisfaction with her husband’s weakness than seeking passion or attention. Richard, the professor, also has an odd relationship with Hector, based on the teacher admiring and envying the student as opposed to the student looking up to the teacher. This can only add to Olive’s disgust toward her husband, who has been sufficiently effective at emasculating himself without requiring any cuckolding on her part.

  Timeliness and relevance were the point. Social commentary had played an increasing role in Nicholson’s career as a screenwriter, with The Trip, Head and Drive, He Said forming an effective cinematic trilogy, not because of any overt connection but due to a unity of theme and message. Narratives don’t continue and characters don’t resurface, yet a sympathetic fundament links the three scripts.

  The risk was the transient consequence of timeliness and relevance. As Margotta explained to me, “I think everyone at the time knew that the film came late for the issues it embodied, with perhaps the one exception being Karen Black’s character. But the issues of Vietnam, the draft, drugs, anti-establishment, counter-revolution themes, had already been played out in the collective. Maybe if it had been three years earlier, it would have been another story. It was 1971, and people wanted to move on.”41

  Nicholson and Larner weave together the worlds of college life, athleticism, political commitment and complex relationships with deftness and nuance. Though weighted with subjects of great import, the final product was not overwhelmed by topical content or finger-pointing, but instead energized by things that matter. Hector and Gabriel and Olive become real people because they care about issues worth caring about—whether the class politics of celebrity and the entitlement of stardom; the politics of a conflict in Southeast Asia and a generational conflict at home; or sexual freedom and gender politics that break the constraints of institutional hierarchy and marital roles.

  They seek escape, but should they succeed? Of the three, Hector’s case seems the most dubious. Without a future in hoops, what can Hector do? He has become accustomed to the coddling. He doesn’t appear to have any other strengths or interests. Even he laughs when he tells a pro team’s management that he’s majoring in Greek. He’s also immature and aimless. At the end of the film, his destiny is ambiguous, as he attempts to rejoin the team, but a gratuitous on-court fight during which he needlessly throws a punch won’t help his prospects.

  Olive escapes a rape attempt by Gabriel, but it’s not known if she will decide to escape her marriage. Prior to the attack, she had already told her husband and Hector that they were “a couple of big babies” and commented, “You two are just right for each other.” It’s clear that she’s through with Hector and that she should leave Richard. If she does, Olive gives the impression that she would build on the experience to become a consequential and liberated person. If not, she will still emerge as strong and vital within a newly defined relationship.

  Gabriel’s future is the most troubling. Margotta provided background about his character’s actions: “I believe there had already been a number of draft board sequences done in Hollywood films and I think the idea was to push the envelope a little further on the subject. Or to put the final touch on the issue. It was pretty much a straightforward concept of taking the character to an inexcusable limit. Something that would create a lot of pressure and give the final snap.”42

  His heavy drug use in order to fail his induction examination backfired, because Gabriel took it too far and flipped out before breaking free to create more havoc—ultimately more on himself than on the system. Though Richard and Olive probably wouldn’t have reported his break-in and attack, Gabriel’s paranoid rampage made any such advantage moot. His final break from reality, running across campus completely nude and trapping himself inside a science lab where he lets trapped animals free, seals his fate. Michael does point out, however, “we were deviating from Larner’s novel and the concern was for the big ending. I like the Larner ending more, but Jack brought it more down to earth. The character self-immolates at the end of the novel after doing some nasty things. There were many parts to the draft sequence that didn’t make it in. We did a lot of coverage of me breaking into the draft board later and destroying it.”43

  Instead, the Nicholson-Larner Gabriel became the victim of the screenwriter’s penchant for situations of futility and conditions of fatalism. This isn’t to say that Nicholson himself carries that attitude, as it is a
lways dangerous to confuse the art (and its message) with the artist. It’s more likely a commentary on society, cleanly summed up by one line from the film, “We’re living in a diseased culture,” which comes across as a Nicholson statement or warning about the future.

  Gabriel is caught and escorted, in a van, to a mental institution. He took his gambit too far, overindulging in chemicals and thoughts of conspiracy. He sought to escape the draft by playing it crazy, but he played it too convincingly, escaping his own reality in the process.

  In another enigmatic Nicholson ending, Gabriel is pushed into the asylum van to the tune of music that makes it seem like he’s going into an ice cream truck. While it drives away, the viewer’s perspective is from inside the van, showing Hector jumping onto the back of the vehicle.

  Adding a poignant touch, Nicholson has Hector yell to his roommate, “Your mother called.” As if it matters.

  This scene is reminiscent of Nicholson’s conclusion of Head, in which the Monkees are trapped again, for the final time, driven away in a clear box on the back of a truck, all under the control of Victor Mature. Gabriel’s van is shaped like the box, with a campus radical and the pop group both riding off to uncertain, scary futures.

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  Drive, He Said has remained the last of Nicholson’s six produced scripts. Monte Hellman, who directed two of the titles, assessed, “I think writing was one of Jack’s many talents, and I was very happy with the screenplays he wrote for me [Flight to Fury and Ride in the Whirlwind].”44 As part of AFI’s Life Achievement Award tribute to Nicholson, Roger Corman wrote, “I truly believe that he would have done equally well as a full-time writer or director if that were his desire.”45