Three books. Allen, Polanski, Lynch.

These three autobiographies have come my way over the last few months. Interestingly, they have all been published quite recently (or republished, in the case of Roman Polanski) and they have all been written by three of my favourite filmmakers. Not necessarily great writers - but with lives like that, would you care?

Woody Allen. Apropos of Nothing (2020).

While it is certainly an entertaining memoir, it is hard not to deplore the fact that Woody Allen spends a good half of this book discussing the sexual abuse allegations. Obviously he has to defend himself (against snowflake publishers, against fickle film stars, against his son and his ex-wife) - but what a waste. He could have been telling us a million stories - instead, he never even gets into the details of his encounter with Simone de Beauvoir. Brilliant observations (like the one where he tells us that Naomi Watts has the 'sexiest two upper teeth in the world') are in short supply, too. Instead, he has to justify himself for things of which he had been acquitted ages ago. Instead, it is what Alan Dershowitz once called 'guilt by accusation'. 

The memoir is full of humility - to a fault. Woody Allen's life has been fascinating, and yet he writes about it in such an 'ah well' manner that you might think he is not the one responsible for dozens of classic American movies. There comes a point in reading Apropos of Nothing when you realise that he dedicates a little over one page to brilliant films like Blue Jasmine and Sweet & Lowdown. It certainly points to a rich and eventful career (where Cate Blanchett is just another great actor) but it also points to a reader being left in the snow. Because, inevitably, you will want more. 

So all the more reason to cherish those first pages where Allen speaks about his early career in comedy and his biggest inspirations. Bob Hope (for whom Allen ended up writing) is a hero, and the way he talks about his admiration for Mort Sahl is pure joy to read. It is a little overwhelming, however, and you might have to watch yourself. Otherwise, you could drown in the sea of names that Allen brings up rather casually - but which are all there for a reason. Thankfully, a lot of space is devoted to Diane Keaton, and the story of Mary Bancroft is a pleasant and somewhat disturbing one-page digression which could easily make it into a Woody Allen film. Really, his plots are everywhere, and with a biography this intense and with a sense of humour this natural you should not wonder where he got all those plots.

There are no special revelations about his films or his actors - but those small details and observations which he throws around so effortlessly are well worthy of your time. He explains why Interiors failed, for instance (no rehearsal), or that there is a scene in Radio Days taken from life (mother running with a knife) or that he considers Husbands and Wives to be his greatest film (there are days when I agree). 

"Attack the day!" he writes at one point, and you know this is exactly what he has been doing all his life. Be that his films, his writings or his clarinet. In this book, he tries so hard to make his life seem ordinary, and it is an admirable attempt - but he fails miserably. It is not an ordinary life. There is, for instance, a story involving Roman Polanski - and the story is more incredible than any of Woody Allen's most insane plots.

Favourite quote: "Judy Davis and I still don't speak, but now it's in Italian". 

Roman Polanski. Roman (1984 / 2017).

Roman is a very frank book. But then, in 1984, nothing else would have done. With a life like that, Polanski had to say it all. And he did. On the way to absolute frankness, Polanski takes no prisoners. So from peeing in bed as a child to the brutal murder of Sharon Tate to the detailed description of the notorious sexual encounter in Jack Nicholson's house, you get to know everything. For better or for worse, Roman Polanski's life is one hell of a ride through immense talent and moral ambiguity. 

It actually took me almost two months to read this book. I read it in Polish and that was something I chose to do on purpose. The Polish language puts an oddly melancholic spin on these events, and it makes Polanski's return to Krakow at the end of the book all the more poignant and memorable. 

In war-torn Poland of his childhood, life was rough and miserable but it was also a period of great obsessions (looking for celluloid in dumpsters, the failed plan to escape to France in a poky bathroom of a Polish train) and of great imagination (the story of a lamp which he believed to be a lie detector is my personal favourite). And all the while, you can spot those small instances that point to the future. While hiding in Warsaw, he saw an abandoned dog on a balcony - with soldiers silently marching by. It is such a beautiful, such an impossibly sad cinematic moment. These days, you read Polanski's autobiography and you think it was all just a string of coincidences - him meeting the right people at the right time. But in the end - that is what makes up a life, all those friendships and affairs and chance encounters. Polanski never shies away from the fact.

Still, there may have been luck - but there was also talent. He covers those early student films in great detail, and it is fascinating to watch them now and witness the dark edge and the moral unease that would later be seen in full bloom. And then there are stories, millions of them. In telling these stories, Polanski pulls no punches. The girl in Knife in the Water 'could not act' (in fact, some stories about her are downright cruel), Catherine Deneuve was 'difficult' (and refused to be shot naked) and Jack Nicholson's TV set got broken by Polanski while making Chinatown (ever an NBA fan, Nicholson could not miss a Lakers game). There was an actor who hated Germans, another who did not want to do a sex scene and Frank Sinatra was a cold-blooded bastard. Really, what a life.

There is great love, too. The pages devoted to Sharon Tate are genuinely emotional, and the way a strangely superstitious Polanski describes their last goodbye is truly heartbreaking. The friendship with Krzysztof Komeda is handled with equal fondness and warmth, and one of my favourite stories in the book involves Komeda's unlikely arrest in California for riding the motorcycle too slow. Also, Roman is full of Polanski's dark humour, and the LSD experience with a girl in London (a word of warning: there are many girls in this book) is both hilarious and disturbing. And then, of course, there is a lot on the movies - the good ones, the bad ones, the ugly ones. It was certainly interesting to find out the thinking behind What? and the origins of making Tess. 

And then, at the very end, Polanski comes back to Poland and says a few important words about Solidarity and the biggest vices of Polish people (alcohol and religion, basically). But you believe him - if only for the reason that here is a man who knew everything about his own vices and who never really tried to hide them. 

Favourite quote: "Critics always preferred my previous film". 

David Lynch. Room To Dream (2018).

You would not expect a straight-up autobiography of David Lynch, would you? 

The book is divided into 16 chapters, and each chapter is written twice. First time it is written by journalist Kristine McKenna and then it is written by David Lynch after reading McKenna's 'factual' version. It is a wonderfully entertaining approach - even if it can occasionally be a little frustrating. Because Lynch chooses to comment on whatever the hell he wants, and while it is always worthwhile, he sometimes misses things you most want to hear. For instance, we never get to find out why Michael Ontkean did not appear in the third season of Twin Peaks...

Each one of these 16 chapters deals with a specific period of Lynch's life. We start with a small American town in the 50s and everything that comes with it: Boise is romantic, dreary, utterly provincial. And, as one of his old friends claims, when Lynch left it - it was like music stopped, like 'someone unscrewed a lightbulb'. This will be a common pattern throughout the book. People love David Lynch, and it goes beyond hero worshipping. David Lynch has this presence, this charisma, this charm. He is the sort of guy who will look into the eyes of someone who brought him coffee on a busy film set and say thank you. Meaningfully, with eyes fully fixed on that person. Actors, crew members, friends and even ex-wives all speak of Lynch with great fondness. "He could get you to do anything, and he’d do it in the nicest way". As a matter of fact, there was just one person who disliked David Lynch, and that was Anthony Hopkins who was famously sulky and morose during the filming of Elephant Man. Lynch bears no grudges - and besides, there was a letter of apology many years later.

I guess there is always an episode in every person's biography which fully encapsulates the essence of said person. In Lynch's case, it could well be that moment in his early life when he was making a painting and all of a sudden a moth got stuck in the paint. He did not want to take it out. Death and art - he loved the combination. Weirdly, he saw light in it. And so out of little paid jobs and out of poky art studios there came a fully-formed artist motivated by nothing but his vision. You do not make a debut like Eraserhead driven by money or potential fame. But also there was humility. "Is this art? My film?" he asked someone after the release of Eraserhead. And he was not being coquettish either. Beyond that vision, everything else is immaterial.

For fans of Lynch (and the author of these lines certainly qualifies), this book is endlessly entertaining. He wanted to drill a hole in an actor's cheek for Dune. He was laughing while doing those gruesome sex scenes in Blue Velvet. Best of all, however, are the directions he gave to his actors. "Think about ghosts", he would tell someone while shooting a scene that has nothing to do with ghosts. My favourite episode involves Mädchen Amick (Shelly Johnson in Twin Peaks) who was not coping with an emotional scene and was growing frustrated because of it. At some point Lynch came up to her, looked her in the eyes, put his arm on her shoulder and sighed. And all of a sudden - she knew how to do the scene. You could say that is silly, or you could say it is magic. With David Lynch, it is probably both. 

Lynch writes in simple, almost deliberately simple sentences. He uses expressions like 'beyond the beyond' and 'peachy keen'. He is, after all, a guy who made The Straight Story (it is hilarious that David Cronenberg was the head of the Cannes jury that year, and he probably hated that film; interestingly, when Lynch was presiding of the Cannes jury, Polanski won with The Pianist). And while the book is full of incisive observations ("You die two deaths if you sell out and fail and just once if you fail"), it is the simplicity, the rawness that strikes you the most. Ultimately, what Lynch shows in this book is that all you ever needed, as an artist, is a room to dream.

Favourite quote: "Always be present".