KILLER INSTINCT

By JANE HAMSHER (Broadway Books; 1997)

     In the category of books about moviemaking this one for me ranks near the top of the heap.  It’s about the twisted inception of Oliver Stone’s NATURAL BORN KILLERS, told from the point of view of Jane Hamsher, one of its producers. 

     Together with her lunatic partner Don Murphy, Hamsher nurtured the NATURAL BORN KILLERS script, written by a video store clerk named Quentin Tarantino, through a singularly horrific development process.  Stumbling blocks included a prospective director who lavished more attention on the design of the crew baseball caps than the film itself, and Tarantino’s own meteoric rise, when, according to Hamsher, he tried to kill the project because, again according to Hamsher, he didn’t want it known he was a one-trick pony.  Luckily NBK was salvaged when Oliver Stone decided he wanted to direct--but little did Hamsher and Murphy realize the real insanity was only beginning.

     Obviously this book isn’t kind to Quentin Tarantino; matter of fact, I’d say it’s the most vicious portrait of the man I’ve ever encountered.  It was KILLER INSTINCT that inspired his infamous altercation with Don Murphy in a posh LA restaurant, in which the latter was pummeled repeatedly and Hamsher, who was present, dubbed Tarantino an “arrogant brat”.

     Of course, in the ensuing years both Murphy and Stone have put aside their differences with Tarantino, which makes me wonder about the accuracy of this book’s claims.  (The fact that Hamsher and Murphy have split up, even though they’re portrayed as all-but inseparable herein, further piques my suspicions.)  Hey, I still think Quentin Tarantino is cool, even after reading this book twice; as far as I’m concerned, JACKIE BROWN, KILL BILL and GRINDHOUSE ably refute Hamsher’s contention that QT is “on his way to becoming the George Gobel of directors, famous for being famous”.

     In any event it’s not Tarantino who comes off worst here but Oliver Stone.  Sure, Hamsher gives Stone credit for taking a chance on her and Murphy, but portrays the production of NBK as a drugged-out nightmare presided over by a manipulative nutcase.  Highlights include an early location scout during which everyone was high on ‘shrooms and a prison riot scene lensed in an actual Illinois penitentiary with mayhem that was all-too real.  Throughout it all Stone comes off as a sadistic, temperamental, self absorbed, testosterone-fuelled bully.  Unsurprisingly, Oliver Stone’s reaction to this book was nearly as vitriolic as Tarantino’s.  (For more Stone-age fun check out JFK, NIXON, OLIVER STONE AND ME, a deeply corrosive 2002 memoir by former Oliver Stone staffer Eric Hamburg that makes the present book seem positively kind-hearted by comparison!)

     Getting back to the issue of authenticity, I’ll confess Hamsher’s portrait of Hollywood in the early nineties feels pretty accurate, particularly during the opening chapters, in which she and Murphy court a succession of “worthless losers who claim to be fabulously wealthy/well-connected/extremely talented/far more important to their company than they actually are”.  As one who spent much of the decade toiling in Hollywood’s lower rungs, I know exactly what--and who--she’s talking about! 

     Still, I can’t help but question some of Hamsher’s claims regarding the production of NBK.  She takes credit, after all, not only for the film’s score (she says she turned the musically illiterate Oliver Stone on to the tunes used in the film while the credited musical supervisor Bud Carr apparently did nothing) but also its final edit (saying she was the only crewmember who dared criticize Stone’s incoherent first cut) and the psychedelic poster art (because she reportedly badgered Warner Bros’ publicity department into changing their initial shitty design).  Good thing Jane Hamsher was around, I guess, or NATURAL BORN KILLERS might have been a whole ‘nother movie!

     But I said at the heard of this review that I loved the book and wasn’t kidding.  It’s lively and raunchy, told in a smooth, hip, expletive-packed vernacular.  Best of all is the way Hamsher presents herself: Not as the expected starry-eyed innocent caught in the corrupt machinations of Big Bad Hollywood, but as an unapologetically bitchy diva-in-training unafraid to name names and lay waste to reputations. 

     I’d place this book alongside the late Klaus Kinski’s unforgettable autobiography ALL I NEED IS LOVE (or KINSKI UNCUT, as it’s better known), a scabrous account whose facts have been called into question repeatedly but still remains an all-time fave.  KILLER INSTINCT is in many ways just as potent, a questionable piece of work in many respects, but goddamn is it entertaining!