NEDDY MERRILL & THE STRING OF POOLS

" The pool, fed by an artesian well with a high iron content, was a pale shade of green. It was a fine day. In the west there was a massive stand of cumulus cloud, so like a city seen from a distance—from the bow of an approaching ship—that it might have had a name. Lisbon. Hackensack. The sun was hot. Neddy Merrill sat by the green water, one hand in it, one around a glass of gin."  - The Swimmer (John Cheever)

It was the summer of 1989. I remember my parents were having a dinner party and my friend Robbie was staying over for a sleepover. We'd already chosen our highly anticipated rental from Astrovision earlier that day. Both excited to watch for the first time Eddie Murphy's 'Coming To America', we certainly weren't disappointed as we delighted in the fun, culture-clash/romantic comedy of peak capitalist New York.

It wasn't unusual to watch a film a second time the instant after the first viewing. But, sensibly, we took a brief pause for a moment or two, bloated from all the sugary snacks we'd devoured as a formal (male) broadcast voice announced on the television that coming up next on BBC1 was Burt Lancaster in 'The Swimmer'.

The title piqued my interest right away (being a Pisces) and so I continued to watch on, intrigued to see if the film would live up to its enigmatic and water-themed title.

From the creepy title sequence with a solitary man walking through lonely woods, I was immediately hooked. A sinister-looking owl, perched on the high branch of a pine tree, looks down at the mysterious figure breaking the detritus of the forest floor with his bare feet, creating a genuinely unsettling atmosphere of foreboding for the viewer.

After emerging from the woods, the man arrives at a perfectly manicured garden where he stands before a crystal clear swimming pool which he wastes no time diving into. He swims the entire length of it before finally coming up for air where he is greeted with a tantalising cocktail by an outstretched hand.

Cue typically 1960s-style lounge music by Marvin Hamlich to accompany the ensuing scene of light social interaction, marking an almost comical contrast from the more brooding melodramatic theme of the title sequence.

It turns out the pool belongs to the Westerhazys, old neighbourhood friends of Neddy Merrill, the strange, lonely figure from the woods portrayed in a career-best performance by Burt Lancaster.

He might have been compared to a summer’s day, particularly the last hours of one, and while he lacked a tennis racket or a sail bag, the impression was definitely one of youth, sport, and clement weather. He had been swimming, and now he was breathing deeply, stertorously, as if he could gulp into his lungs the components of that moment, the heat of the sun, the intenseness of his pleasure. It all seemed to flow into his chest. His own house stood in Bullet Park, eight miles to the south, where his four beautiful daughters would have had their lunch and might be playing tennis. Then it occurred to him that, by taking a dog-leg to the southwest, he could reach his home by water. In his mind he saw, with a cartographer’s eye, a string of swimming pools, a quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county.

The established tone of this initially relaxed opening scene is broken momentarily by the use of a strange soft focus shot of sunlight that deliberately invites that uniquely 60s style of lens glare to convey more than a hint of Neddy Merrill's unhinged mind. We sense early on that this is not going to be a normal type of story.

The only maps and charts he had to go by were remembered or imaginary, but these were clear enough. First there were the Grahams’, the Hammers’, the Lears’, the Howlands’, and the Crosscups’. He would cross Ditmar Street to the Bunkers’ and come, after a short portage, to the Levys’, the Welchers’, and the public pool in Lancaster. Then there were the Hallorans’, the Sachs’, the Biswangers’, the Shirley Abbott’s, the Gilmartins’, and the Clydes’. The day was lovely, and that he lived in a world so generously supplied with water seemed like a clemency, a beneficence.

The concept of a man swimming back to his home across the county via other people's swimming pools is quite insane, but as insanity is the underlying theme of the story this obsession slowly begins to make more sense to the audience as they chart the course with Neddy set sail on his personal odyssey.

Having always loved swimming pools myself (as previously mentioned), I found 'The Swimmer' perfectly captured the cinematic potential of water as well as any film I've seen that deals with aquatic themes. As I've grown older, I've come to realise that in many ways, it's the atmosphere of movies that makes me return to them time and time again. One obvious reason I think the pre-CGI era of filmmaking was so successful at evoking atmosphere in film is that they often used real locations and places suited to the stories they depicted. If I think of Polanski's 'Chinatown', Altman's 'The Long Goodbye' or Visconti's 'The Leopard', I immediately recall them by the atmosphere conveyed through the lens. It's no surprise then that the use of Westport, Connecticut perfectly suits the late summer/early autumn atmosphere of Cheever's masterpiece short story the film is based on. I remember visiting Connecticut myself around that same time of year back in my late teens and the sweet melancholy ambiance of the place brought to my mind 'The Swimmer' once again.

Ned Merrill : You're the captain of your soul. That's what counts. Know what I mean?

One scene later on in the movie that I've always found quietly moving is when Neddy Merrill meets Kevin, a lonely young boy (and possible mirror of Ned himself), who is standing on the edge of a diving board over a large empty swimming pool, unaware he might risk his life should he fall in.

Ned warns the young boy and manages to steer him away from danger, after which they sit and discuss existential matters in a very Rod McKuen-type of way. This scene also brings to mind one of J.D. Salinger's less talked about short stories, 'Teddy', from his 'Nine Stories' collection which also involves a swimming pool with a dysfunctional protagonist.

As Neddy Merrill continues to go from pool to pool, the sense of a long, late summer day of water, dust and heat becomes overwhelming as he begins to increasingly break down.

The empathy one feels with the lost character of Neddy Merrill is palpable and I am always impressed how Lancaster makes us feel concern for him as he becomes increasingly desperate and we slowly realise that he no longer has a home of his own to return to.

Along with Updike's 'Rabbit Redux' and Frank Sinatra's 'Cycles', I feel there are few better depictions of a late mid-life crisis than 'The Swimmer'.

Even Mad Men's complex Don Draper might shudder at life-swapping places with his tormented peer, Neddy Merrill.

Ned Merrill : I'm cold. What's the matter with that sun? There's no heat in it."

Many years later, I came up with the concept of turning John Cheever's short story into a ballet with sets designed (ideally) by David Hockney after his famous California swimming pool series of paintings. In my fantasy head it would have been staged by Glyndebourne to whom I recall sending them a brief proposal for it.

Having arranged to pitch this idea to acclaimed British composer Jonathan Dove, I caught up with him over coffee in some boho cafe while the August 2011 London Riots were kicking off in the city, creating considerable tension all around us as I calmly tried to explain the more darkly serene plot of 'The Swimmer'.

He'd never heard of the story or the film at that time so I duly sent both to him via post so he could be better acquainted with them.

Needless to say he was busy with other projects and time slipped away, like water through the cracks of my fingers.

It was a couple of years in later in 2015 that I noticed that the San Francisco Ballet had staged the exact same concept I'd been pushing many years before. I mentioned this to Dove in a brief message; he sarcastically retorted: "I told you it was a good idea."

*Insert face palm

And so, just like Neddy, I once again had my heart broken.

Ned Merrill : I'm a very special human being. Noble. And splendid.

In conclusion, all I can say is that Frank Perry's 'The Swimmer' sure as hell made a profound impression on me and as a double bill with 'Coming To America', I'm not sure it's been beaten for psychological contrast.

When I turned to see if my schoolmate Robbie was still awake, I realised he'd been asleep all the time I'd been glued to the screen, absorbed in this cautionary tale of water and heartbreak.

I guess the tragic fate of Neddy Merrill is not for everyone.

Cheers!