User Reviews

This is okay for fans but really only shows him as a guy who drank himself to death and wasted his promise. The readings aren't going to sway anyone and all of the people falling over themselves to praise him are mostly forgotten now. This would have been great for anyone alive or affected by On the Road, but for anyone born after you're left asking yourself what the big deal was.

Anyone who's a fan of Kerouac, or who would like to know about him, will be thrilled to see so much great stuff packed into one film. Aside from the usual anecdotes by people who knew him (Burroughs, Ginsberg, Corso etc.), there are numerous scenes of him on TV guest shows and in all kinds of home movies. The stuff with him on the Steve Allen Show is particularly invaluable as he reads some of his work with Allen playing background jazz piano. If you've never heard Kerouac read his work before, he is amazing. He has a rhythm and a beat that is like that of a great jazz vocalist.

This film beautifully chronicles his life from his early years when he seemed frivolous and free-spirited, to the mid-late 1950s, when he was becoming more intense and serious. It also covers the mid-late 1960s, when he was bloated, burnt-out and indigent (you can't blame him for being a little indigent toward William F. Buckley though!). There's a lot of great speculation about his personality and the meaning of his writings by those who knew him. My favorite bits though were just incredible B/W scenes of San Francisco's deserted seedy dock areas seemingly shot in late afternoon, with a jazz trumpet background and Kerouac's voice reading his work. Which is to say, that this film is more than just a well-researched documentary about a writer. It captures his tone and essence visually and musically. Everything one can hope for in a documentary!

This documentary, made over fifteen year's after Kerouac's death in 1969, consists mainly of interviews with about two dozen people who knew him back in the day. All of the interviewees have mostly positive things to say, like what a genius he was, how handsome he was, and so forth. To elicit such interest from so many people, he must indeed have had a magnetic personality, but I did not find that that came across in this movie.

There is footage of Kerouac in a TV appearance on William F. Buckley's "Firing Line" where I felt he made a total ass of himself in an appearance that was embarrassing to watch. Most of his comments made little sense and he seemed to go out of his way to effect a general lack of concern. The main interviewee in the movie, Gregory Corso, strove to display a similar insouciance, as did Neil Cassady in the brief clips he was in.

I found the interviews with Kerouac's daughter Jan perhaps the most interesting. Kerouac saw his daughter only twice in his life, once to establish paternity, and another time when he was totally dismissive of her (did I mention that he came across as a clod).

His appearance on Steve Allen's Tonight Show reading from "On the Road" was interesting, but that seemed very rehearsed and Kerouac appeared to be quite nervous. Allen was having a hell of a time interviewing him, since he was getting only short direct answers to his questions. Kerouac had to be an interviewer's nightmare.

Rehashing Kerouac's life and the origins of the Beat Generation has turned into a cottage industry, what with so many films and biographies out there, some as recent as 2008 ("One Fast Move or I'm Gone: Kerouac's Big Sur").

The production values of this film are quite low. Most of the interviews are filmed in extreme close up and are poorly lighted with equally inferior sound.

Maybe if you have some special personal interest in this era, or identify with the movement, then you will get something out of this; otherwise probably not.

Unfortunately this film works against encouraging you to read Kerouac's books.

I was in the US in 1984 when I got wind of a party Allen Ginsberg was planning to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the publication of 'On The Road'. Allen was, at that time the head of the Jack Kerouac School Of Disembodied Poets at the Naropa Institute in Boulder, Colorado under the spiritual guidance of Chogyam Trungpa. I realized that this might well be the last occasion that what remained of the Beat Generation would be in the same place at the same time. In LA I enlisted the help of poet/journalist Lewis McAdams to pull together a little cash and a sympathetic crew to go and film the party. This we did. I was the Producer, Lewis conducted the interviews. After the shoot, Lewis and I collaborated on the script, copies of which I still have, sharing the credit. Try as we may,we were unable to raise the $100,000 to finish what we had started. Despite having all the interviews in the can, a robust script and Lionsgate Films as Executive Producer we couldn't raise a dime. That's how it was when I and my wife left for Europe. I was contacted by Richard Lerner, the DOP on the shoot. His father had died and left him a lot of money and he wanted to finish the Kerouac film. He and Lewis were going to do it themselves and I was not wanted. As Producer I had collected all the releases to the interviews which I sold to him. It's never pleasant when one's own idea and work is usurped by others but it happens in our industry. The boys were good enough to give me a credit buried in a long list as an Associate Producer. No mention of being the original Producer and co writer. Richard and Lewis were Kerouac sycophants. I think the movie would have been the better for my less sanctimonious, English curiosity.

The answer should be obvious: the influential author of 'On The Road' suffered from an overdose of self-absorption and became a martyr for untalented imitators everywhere. Few of his acolytes would ever dare to acknowledge what the Beat Generation might have actually represented: an elite minority of conceited misfits, calling attention to themselves and insisting (with no small arrogance) that by displaying their own inadequacies they were somehow expressing the angst of post-war America's disillusioned youth. Respect for an iconoclastic (if self-destructive) literary rebel is one thing, but this ongoing elevation of Kerouac to divinity is quite another.