You go, L.A. Weekly! After your consistent but futile attempts to discredit Scientology, a drug-free and highly workable technology that has improved millions of lives, you are now advocating experiments with LSD on human guinea pigs. The therapeutic value of this hallucinogenic drug is about the same as that of a sledgehammer or - another psychiatric favorite - electroshock "therapy." LSD has ruined the lives of so many, including Jimi Hendrix, Brian Wilson and Peter Green. Green said in 1996: "LSD makes you break with your feelings; you disown them because they are uncomfortable. The thing about LSD is you can't get back . . . You lose all your fears. You could kill yourself and it wouldn't matter." The Weekly has shown which side it is on - the wrong one. Again!
I read with interest John Whalen's article about the LSD studies of Dr. Oscar Janiger and wish to make one clarification. The artist who, under the influence of LSD, painted the renditions of Janiger's Hopi Indian kachina dolls that accompanied the story was not - as a reader might conclude from matching up the uncredited art with the text of the article - Fortune illustrator Frank Murdoch, but Abstract Impressionist Gil Henderson, whose work can be seen at the L.A. County Museum of Art and at the Adamson-Duvannes Gallery in West Hollywood.
THE ABSOLUTE LAST WORD
I have hesitated to add my voice to the Leather Jacket Love Story "faggot" controversy on your Letters page because of my friendship with screenwriter Rondo Miecszkowski, but last week's letter calling for revision of supposedly offensive language within Ernest Hardy's review begs for comment.
Two issues have been obscured due to the nature of the comments to date. First, as to Mr. Hardy's critique and discussion of the film, which I thought was apt and to the point: At its best, Leather Jacket Love Story is a feel-good wish-fulfillment fantasy about a Silver Lake that never was and never will be, a community where hunky carpenter studs, drag-queen vigilantes and angelic young poets mingle and thrive, in opposition to crass, commercial West Hollywood.
Second, it's clear that there was nothing careless or "homophobic" about the reviewer's word choices. Since our community has become self-aware, we have struggled both for a term to describe ourselves and for a sense of "pride" in who we are. We have done both by appropriating words of the dominant culture for our own coded use. "Homosexual" began its life as a term describing mental illness; "gay" was a term of derision drawn from the theater. Only a few years ago, "queer" was looked upon with revulsion by the generation that had fought to create "gay" acceptance. Now, it seems, "faggot" is the next taboo.
I despair of finding an intellectual center, a place where ideas may freely be discussed, in the musclebound, crystal-addicted, starstruck community we call "gay male L.A." Calling for the excision of hot-button language adds nothing to a discourse of ideas; it is reductive and reactionary. I don't especially care for the sound of "faggot" (I prefer the campier "fag"), but I defend Ernest Hardy's use of it in general, and specifically in reference to this film.
I enjoyed your "Alternative Top 101" [July 3-9]. Such lists are fun if not treated too seriously, and are controversial. As is your list. I gently accuse you of:
Cowardice - You list the films by year, rather than by importance or significance or quality. That's a cop-out. It would have been far more fun - and more controversial - if you'd ranked them.
Sexism - You made Alexander Hammid invisible when you listed Meshes of the Afternoon and left out Maya Deren's male co-director and husband. Hammid was at least 50 percent (and probably more) responsible for the film. And he's still alive.
Silliness - You leave out many great films by Sam Peckinpah but include one of his few dogs, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. Even his friends didn't like it.
Beyond Belief - Amy Heckerling and Harold Ramis in the same list as Welles, Ford, Hawks, Wilder, Kubrick, Hitchcock, Minnelli and Scorsese?
I do not comprehend by what standards the Library of Congress, the AFI and now you justify the inclusion of the obviously British Lawrence of Arabia in a list of otherwise American films. If you couldn't come up with another indisputably American film, you mean you couldn't even come up with another disputably American one, along with Dr. Strangelove, Chimes at Midnight, Once Upon a Time in America and Until the End of the World?