One final question that might be asked, I suppose, is if—or to what extent—Lu Anne realized the revolutionary role she played on the twentieth-century American stage. Having spent only two days, and less than a dozen hours total, with Lu Anne, I may not be the best person to answer this. But I can honestly say that the dignity and self-worth she radiated—as strongly as the warm sunshine of her smile—were far beyond that of the ordinary homemaker of Daly City, California. You could not be with her more than a few minutes without feeling as if you were with someone special, and someone who was well aware of how special she was.
That she was known to, and respected by, people from all walks of life—everyone from the mayor of San Francisco to rock promoter Bill Graham—as her daughter reports, is significant testimony to the evident power she felt in herself and reflected to others. For, I believe, others could not have recognized Lu Anne’s unique character if she did not recognize it, and wear it comfortably, herself. It is significant that many of the important people she impressed, whether a singer like Johnny Mathis or a topless dancer like Carol Doda, did not know her specifically as “Marylou” of On the Road, though they might have known her as a strikingly independent woman in some other capacity, such as North Beach club owner or power broker in the city’s underground politics.
To me, it was also significant that she expressed such a strong longing to get back in touch with some of the major artists she had once mingled so easily with—often asking me what had become of people whose names came up in the course of the interview, or, as in the case of John Holmes, asking me to send along her best regards to him. It was clear she missed her days closer to the center of artistic creation, visionary exploration, and cultural change. There was also a touch of sadness I would see in her eyes or hear in her voice, from time to time, as she probably realized the almost insurmountable obstacles that now lay between her and the kind of freedom and significance her life had once had.
A final fact that convinces me that Lu Anne knew who she was, and at least glimpsed the grandeur of her own accomplishments, was the way she reacted to the movies that were being made about her. She was angry that Heart Beat had caught only the superficial aspects of her rebellion—and had reduced her choice to love freely, across all the moral boundaries of the day, to a decision to live with poor hygiene. By the same token, she told her daughter that she was greatly looking forward to, and held high hopes for, the new film that would be made of On the Road, and hence of her early life, by Walter Salles, a director known for his respectful treatment of political and cultural revolutionaries. It is one further, sad irony of Lu Anne’s life that she died so shortly before that film finally went into production.
One can but hope that actress Kristen Stewart, who got to listen to Lu Anne’s taped interview and to talk extensively with her daughter, Annie, before playing the role of Lu Anne on camera, will finally give the great courage and innovative spirit, as well as the vast heart of this woman, their long-deferred due.
Kristen Stewart and Walter Salles at Beat Boot Camp, Montreal, July 2010. Kristen is listening to Lu Anne’s tapes. (Photo by Gerald Nicosia.)
Al Hinkle’s Story
Al Hinkle, circa 1946, the year he reconnected with Neal Cassady. (Photo courtesy of Al Hinkle.)
Al Hinkle was probably Neal Cassady’s best friend. In On the Road, he is portrayed as Big Ed Dunkel, the extraordinarily faithful sidekick and helper who will do anything for Neal, even abandon his new wife (Helen) a quarter way across the continent, so that they can get to North Carolina and Neal’s other good buddy, Jack Kerouac, a little quicker and with a little less hassle.