Today marks the 23rd anniversary of Oliver Stone’s epic film about Jim Morrison.
A film that I ran out to see and in the process, let down a friend of mine by skipping a rehearsal. A film that, when I was 16, seemed like the coolest darned thing ever.
A film that, since then, I have come to realize is the shining example of everything wrong not just with our culture, but the glorification of Hippies. There are so many factual inaccuracies in this film that I can hardly stand it anymore.
But that sixteen year old boy didn’t know that. To him, this film was everything he thought he wanted to be. Effortlessly cool, unconcerned with worldly judgment and so successful at doing…um, nothing…that he was lionized as a secular saint.
Some day soon I’ll re-watch this film (again) and pass a more sober (ha!) judgment on it. But for now, it sits there as so many of my memories of that boy do: cold and neglected, because he was a horribly selfish person. The fact that anyone considered him worth knowing is a mystery still.
And I know he lurks in my heart somewhere still, impish and awaiting the right moment to be wrong.
I live in terror that this movie, if watched again, will result in the release from his prison.
So I’ll just let you wrestle with this notion as I part today.
The same lad who idolized Luke Skywalker for all of his purity, will and self-sacrifice also idolized Jim Morrison. Noodle that one through.