A CINEMATIC SEANCE

I'm pretty sure only Oliver Stone could have directed the film about Jim Morrison and The Doors. In the hands of anyone less gonzo (even Jodorowsky), I sense it might have too quickly fallen apart. A more sober focus on Morrison and his anarchic antics likely wouldn’t have survived a conservative approach or stood up to greater scrutiny. Stone’s mission seemed to be to evoke the spirit of Morrison and the era in which he performed — by those who were there (including Stone himself), for those who weren’t. In this sense, the film does a great service in capturing the time without ever feeling inauthentic or too far removed down the historical timeline to be convincingly recreated (at least from a production point of view).

It’s a true Rock ’n’ Roll movie in that it doesn't compromise in its attempt to fully convey the world in which its central subject existed. Whether the scenes included are always entirely accurate is another matter. The question of how closely a biopic must adhere to real events is an ongoing debate, and surely on the side of “when the legend becomes fact, print the legend” is Milos Forman’s Amadeus (1985), about composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. On the more historically faithful side of the argument is Anton Corbijn’s Control (2007), about Joy Division’s Ian Curtis.

Compared to more recent and conventional biopics such as Walk the Line, Bohemian Rhapsody, and A Complete Unknown, Stone’s The Doors is more of a cinematic séance — a bacchanalian fever dream/peyote trip (with echoes of Fellini) that benefits from its loose-seeming, essentially non-linear structure. Motifs of Native Americans and flashbacks to Morrison’s younger self stalk The Doors frontman as he gets increasingly out of his mind on drink and drugs, while the music of the band emerges out of long, almost stream-of-consciousness sequences.

It’s clear that Baz Luhrmann was inspired by Stone’s approach with The Doors in his film about Elvis (starring Austin Butler), except he kept the stabilisers on. Stone, however, has an impossible style of directing to replicate — a sort of twitchy, coke-fuelled Alex Jones–paranoia type of storytelling that he made his own during the ’80s and ’90s. Often looked down upon compared to his almost-contemporaries, Stone’s unique body of work served as a visceral overview of America in the ’60s, ’70s, and ’80s, seen through the eyes of a man who lived and breathed it and reported it like a citizen journalist convinced the authorities were out to get him — broadcasting from deep within that unique corner of the American psyche that has now become far more mainstream.

The heartbreak of sixties idealism destroyed by assassinations and forever wars — seems to so often be Stone’s obsession, and the rebellious defiance of Morrison’s creative (some might say pretentious) music and poetic lyrics just might represent the symbolic final curtain brought down (with the help of Charles Manson and his death cult) on the dream of the 1960s.

It would be remiss — given the recent news of his death — not to mention the uncanny performance by Val Kilmer, who inhabits the role so completely that he could have spent the rest of his career as the world’s number one Jim Morrison impersonator. Indeed, the remaining members of The Doors were so impressed with Kilmer’s ability to capture Morrison’s behavior, physicality, and voice (including his singing) that they claimed he was practically indistinguishable from their late frontman.

John Densmore (drummer, in his memoir Riders on the Storm):

“Val Kilmer became Jim Morrison. I watched him channel Jim’s energy in a way that was both powerful and a little disturbing. He got inside it. He didn’t play Jim — he was Jim.”

Robby Krieger (guitarist, in a 1991 interview):

"It was really spooky. Sometimes I’d be talking to Val and I’d forget he wasn’t Jim. He looked so much like him, sounded like him — it was like being back in the '60s. It freaked me out."

The Doors is far from a perfect movie and I wish Stone had left out the final death scene in Paris, instead alluding to it in premonition form during the birthday party — or wake — where Morrison celebrates his 27th birthday, that notorious number associated with the "27 Club," which has claimed so many artists, including Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Tupac Shakur, and Amy Winehouse. There’s something about the surreal convergence of motifs — assembled like the Strange Days album cover — that acts as a symphonic hallucination or premonition, as Morrison sits wearing a birthday hat, surrounded by children, circus performers, street freaks, and his ever-present Native American spirit guide (who always seems to be ushering him to the other side). It’s just too perfect a moment not to be the end.

And on that note, I can imagine it was too obvious to end with The End as the final track — but then again, sometimes things are just meant to be. I suppose Coppola had already honoured the song in one of the greatest cinematic send-offs: the final scene of Apocalypse Now, where Willard (Martin Sheen) carries out his assassination of Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando) deep in the jungle. Still, call it delusional arrogance, but I would have been tempted to try and outdo it.

Geniuses often don’t know when to stop or admit defeat. Perhaps Stone held back, suspecting it would seem anticlimactic by comparison. Or maybe… out of respect?

Perhaps he should have gone for one last peyote-inspired dance in the desert with Jim.

Then again, he might not have come back.