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The late Charles Bukowski famously faulted the Beat writers for
becoming "sell-outs" (successful), claiming for himself the status of the last
real Beat, bohemian artist who remained true to his core values. Every artist, bohemian or
not, ultimately seeks recognition, at least among his or her peers, and enough commercial
success to continue to pursue their artistic endeavors. Bukowski seemed to seek
ennoblement by living at the lowest possible margin of society. In his writing he
celebrated the virtues of boozing, whoring, gambling, and getting fired from every job he
was forced to take. Factotum, or "man of many jobs," describes the only sort of
life possible for such a blue-collar rebel, and Factotum celebrates Bukowski’s
more or less autobiographical literary persona, Henry Chinaski.
Bukowski lived to see several of his novels, several volumes of his
short stories and essays, and many, many volumes of his poetry published, mostly by Black
Sparrow Press. Through his carefully crafted persona he nurtured an intensely loyal
readership into a world-wide cult following. His fame has lived on after his death and
continues to grow, especially in Europe. Factotum was Bukowski’s second
published novel; director Bent Hamer’s Norwegian-American co-production of the film
bearing the same name draws on this novel, as well as several of Bukowski’s volumes
of poetry. Factotum the film well represents Bukowski’s style, subject matter,
and spirit. Hamer retraces the narrative paths, and in much the same spirit, as the old,
life-bedraggled master himself, who was fond of ruminating over the same ruminations,
again and again, mesmerizing the reader in the repeated retelling of mostly the same
stories.
Matt Dillon stars as Henry Chinaski (Bukowski’s literary alter
ego), a young and raging alcoholic writer, with impossibly high ideals and a sharp pen,
not to mention an utter inability to say no to a drink, sex, or a gambling stake. In the
opening vignette Chinaski finds himself dispatched to deliver ice to a dive bar in a
warehouse district of an anonymous American city. As he drives out of the company lot, his
truck yanks an electrical socket out of an exterior wall as he pulls away. The first order
of business when delivering ice to a bar, of course, is to get a drink in himself. Soon he
is exchanging wry, slow-cured blue-collar barbs with some crusty old bastard at the bar.
The barfly bears a striking physical resemblance to the historical Bukowski--Bukowski
making a cameo appearance by proxy from the other side of the grave is just the sort of
ironic joke in which he quietly reveled.
Dillon shambles, dishevels and enunciates, simulating with precise
timing and bearing a wholly satisfying portrayal of Charles Bukowski, especially the
take-it-or-leave-it physicality of the man. Dillon renders the mostly alcohol-sodden
states which Chinaski passes through the world in with poise, rigor, and believability,
eschewing cliched sloppy, slurred-speech pathos. Alas, Dillon’s deeply tanned,
disciplined body and matinee-idol good looks constantly work against his performance.
Jan, Chinaski’s on-again, off-again love of the moment, is played
by Lili Taylor, who transforms "one of Chinaski’s women" into a deeply
touching and deeply human portrait of a fatally afflicted alcoholic. Taylor gets "the
female barfly" just right. In fact, Taylor and Dillon execute a textbook perfect
portrait of a typical late-stage alcoholic couple, and through grace and skill transform
Jan and Hank into Dante and Beatrice lost and roaming through the Inferno.
Bukowski’s vision of the dignity of the alcoholic as artist in
pursuit of personal authenticity seduces every time. In this Dillon and Taylor collude
with author and director brilliantly. The portrait of low-life Minneapolis as the Bowery
(the film’s stand-in for Bukowski’s real-life sleazy Hollywood neighborhoods)
adds a further dimension to the film’s peculiar charm. With more levity than Ironweed
and more charm than The
Lost Weekend, Factotum may leave the moviegoer unaware of just how deep
Bukowski’s thrust has gone.
- Les Wright
