В 2020 году Оливер Стоун / Oliver Stone выпустил полноценную автобиографию - «Chasing the Light. Writing, Directing, and Surviving Platoon, Midnight Express, Scarface, Salvador, and the Movie Game».
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/53322520-chasing-the-light
Книга сконцентрирована на самом начале творческой карьеры и достаточно подробно описывает все мытарства, пробы, ошибки, первый успех и затем опускание на дно из которого, казалось бы, уже нет выхода, но тем не менее получилось не утратить веры в себя и снова вернуться в «Голливуд», и теперь даже зазвучать по всему Миру своим уникальным голосом кино-видения.
https://www.audible.com/pd/Chasing-the-Light-Audiobook/1913183424
Примечательно, что аудиокнига начитана самим Стоуном. Начитка очень хорошая, правда иногда он глотает и «кашеварит» фрагменты, но динамика подачи отличная. Хотя мне приходилось в таких местах, поставив книгу на паузу, открывать цифровую книгу и прояснять смысл.
Занятно, как в последней трети, словно процесс начитки занимал длительное время, в его голосе стали часто проскальзывать подхихикивания на акцентах фраз. Подобное я отмечал на аудиокниге — автобиографии Филипа Гласса Но там начитывал обычный проф-диктор.
= ЗАПОМНИВШИЕСЯ МОМЕНТЫ ИЗ КНИГИ СТОУНА =
ПОСЛЕ СТРАННОГО БОЯ ВО ВЬЕТНАМЕ
Стоун описывает почти мистическое состояние после ужасного боя, в котором он не видел противника, но получил сотрясение от удара «своих» минометчиков в спину:
«But at that point I heard the blast first because it was so loud, then felt the beehive round coming from a tank behind us, maybe a hundred yards away. Why? It didn’t matter why—someone fucked up! It engulfed us like a giant wave that swept us maybe ten or twenty yards through the air, maybe more. I blacked out, but I have no idea for how long, much less where I landed.
Moments later—again, perhaps five, ten minutes, perhaps longer, I’ll never know—I woke as if inside a dream. I was probably concussed, but I didn’t know that either. I struggled to my feet, couldn’t see anybody from my group. But I was moving all right, no blood I could see, nothing broken. I felt I was okay, although a week earlier, I’d seen a man in my platoon walk into a medevac chopper, wounded in the gut, relieved to be getting out of the bush, and then the next day we heard he’d died from “internal bleeding,” a form of death I’d never imagined. And the poor man thought he was lucky.
(...)
No person should ever have to witness so much death. I really was too young to understand, and thus I erased much of it, remembering it in this strange way as a stunningly beautiful night full of fireworks, in which I hadn’t seen a single enemy, been fired on, or fired at anyone. It’d been like a dream through which I’d walked unharmed, grateful of course, but numb and puzzled by it all. It reminded me of passages in Homer of gods and goddesses coming down from Mount Olympus to the bloody battlefields at Troy to help their favorites, wrapping a mist or cloak around them and winging them to safety."
ВОЗВРАЩЕНИЕ ИЗ ВЬЕТНАМА И ПРИЕМ ЛСД
Оливер описывает необычное состояние после возвращения из ада боевых действий, когда он сам не свой под кислотой, уехал в Мексику, Тихуану и там пытался как-то вернуться в реальность обычного мира.
Suddenly on my own, in a khaki uniform, I took the Greyhound bus south with a duffel bag and a lot of cash and walked aimlessly around San Francisco, as if looking at everything for the first time. Suddenly I missed my companions from the army. I don’t think any of us ever reckoned with coming home. I took LSD in Santa Cruz, bused down to Los Angeles, and, after several dreamy, stoned days, crossed into Tijuana, terrified already of the country I’d just returned to. I was quite alone—no direction home. I hadn’t called my father or mother, anyone. I was happy to “disappear.” No one could get ahold of me. I didn’t want to think. All I wanted to do was party, drink, and find myself a Mexican woman, like any sailor or soldier boy.
АРЕСТ И ТЮРЬМА ПО ДИЧАЙШЕЙ ГЛУПОСТИ КОНТРАБАНДЫ МАРИХУАНЫ
Сам не понимая как он мог быть таким глупым, Стоун, когда ему наскучило в Тихуане, пытался провести через границу Мексики в Америку практически открыто 60 грамм отборной марихуаны и его повязали....
With a two-ounce bag of strong Vietnamese weed I was carrying, I was feeling no pain, top of the world, no fucking officers or sergeants to tell me what to do anymore, never again—free! And stupid. One night, after midnight, I grew depressed and bored with the seedy Tijuana scene and, gathering my few belongings, wandered back across the border into the US. What was I thinking? Did I have a screw loose? I did. I was only twenty-three.
At the near empty border crossing, an old, nervous customs agent asked me to step into the station. It must’ve been easy—I looked the part. Had I drunk too much beer? Did I not remember there were rules, even in civilian life? Within an hour I was handcuffed to a chair, being interrogated by two FBI agents who were fresh after my collaborators in this smuggling scheme I was working out of Mexico. Clearly, I should have left the damn Vietnamese weed in some footlocker in the US. But then again, I wasn’t thinking too much, and hardly knew where I was going next. Maybe I’d just keep wandering south in Mexico. I didn’t know.
They knew. Within a day or two I was processed into the downtown San Diego County Jail with a capacity of about two thousand beds, but which was now occupied by around four to five thousand mostly tough black and Hispanic kids, many of them gang members, jammed into this overcrowded space; many of them were still waiting for trial after six months inside. No money, no bail, nothing. Within a few days, I was chained to eight or nine other young guys, marched in our prison uniforms through downtown San Diego streets, eyes down to avoid the stares of the civilians on the sidewalks, ashamed, led into a courtroom where I was indicted on federal smuggling charges, facing five to twenty years.
ПОДМЕШИВАНИЕ ЛСД СВОЕМУ ОТЦУ В ОТМЕСТКУ ЗА ЕГО «ВОЕННЫЕ» ВЗГЛЯДЫ И ОПЫТ «ГРИБОВ»
There were times, yes, I wanted to kill him. I wanted to extinguish this mind that condoned war as necessary. And one day out on Long Island, I actually slipped a strong tab of orange sunshine LSD into his scotch rocks to blow that mind. It was at a dinner party he’d invited me to, where I was among twelve other guests, so I couldn’t be singled out. But after his initial awkwardness when he realized he was “on something,” he surprisingly announced to the suspects around the table that, whoever had given this to him, he was actually enjoying the “trip”; after all, he’d drunk a lot of whiskey in his life, and it takes more than one trip to change a strong mind. In that regard, I was younger when I was exposed to LSD, grass, mushrooms. I was able over time to essentially reexamine and question almost everything in my life, every mental feeling and perception. Having been under my father’s strong influence, I found it was quite a change in consciousness.
НАРКОТИКИ КАК ОБРАЗ ЖИЗНИ
Стоун довольно много описывает свое состояние в подвешенности. когда он пытался найти спасение в «накротической» отключке:
By the time I was thirty—my self-imposed deadline to succeed—I’d expected to be established, starting a career, taking care of myself. I wasn’t so sure anymore; it was going on a year now since I’d come back from the army, and I was quite lost in a spiral of feelings, writing half-baked scripts, taking LSD and grass, angel dust, and engaging in sex, a lot of lust, New York parties, random girls young and old. I was drifting.
You learn a lot from pain, mostly in retrospect. And at times, much against my principles, when I was up to here in worry and uncertainty and dissension on the set, I’d sneak off to the back of the stage with a trusted crew member and do a hit of cocaine; this was reassuring. But more often, I took a quaalude (tranquilizer) to ease my nerves. And then, as the shooting intensified, I began doing a quaalude every morning before I got to the set. This, although not that significant yet, was the beginning of an addiction which I did not see coming, a need—a need to have a drug in order to work.
Depressed, haunted, I took refuge in some friends, most of them European, who made me laugh and treated the debacle as just another pit stop in this life. Perhaps they were right. They were sophisticated and fond of cocaine and other drugs, sometimes heroin.
I started to use cocaine more frequently to numb the pain. Elizabeth joined me. We’d moved to the beach in the Venice area, to a rented town house. Every day the sound of the waves pounding the shore—the sameness of that ocean began to grate on my nerves, like in Edgar Allan Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart.”
I loved my cocaine like a baby does a toy or an adult his ice cream, and didn’t want to give it up. I was hooked on cocaine. And hooked is when you need it to operate, to work—that is addiction, when you’re controlled by something other than your willpower. You’re non-human. That’s why I shrink from junkies and mad people in the street. They scare me. They come up to me, zombie eyes, and you suddenly realize that nothing you do or say can reach their mind. It’s a mirror of your own fear of losing control. This was the first time in my life I’d ever been hooked—on anything—needing to have it at any cost, at any time.
Зависимость от качелей вверх-вниз Uppers — Downers
Down and then up; then back down. Less at night actually, unless I partied, because I’d have to restore my energy to relaunch the writing process the next day. It becomes a destructive cycle you cannot see, because it seems to be going well with the drugs tied into a fixed writing schedule. I wasn’t a messy cokehead, I was turning out the pages each day, but what I needed most now was “the high,” which was this combination of “up and down,” contradictory motions in the mind. The downer and the upper create friction, which is excitement, and sometimes brilliant insight (or so it seemed). Wake up in the morning, breakfast, close the curtains and plunge into the cave. Break at midday for a run, then back into the cave. I can see the patterns of my father’s discipline merging with my mother’s indulgence. Both extremes had synthesized into this torn human being, trying to be “moderate” in his contradiction.
Но спасение в «мере» и осознании опасности от зависимости:
The moment I left Miami, I went “cold turkey,” not touching cocaine, or anything else beyond grass, for almost three months. Elizabeth as well. It’s not that I was giving it up permanently, no, but that I stopped being addicted. In retrospect, I was never a big abuser of cocaine itself, but I did mix it with downers and alcohol to get as high as I could. My doctor later pointed out to me I had a deficiency of dopamine in my brain (the natural pleasure chemical) and tended to overcompensate. But compared to the coke users I knew, I was no more or less than a 5 or 6 on a scale of 10. After Paris I would do coke again socially, but out of choice, never out of need—an important distinction.
ИСКУШЕНИЕ ПАКЕТОМ ГЕРОИНА, КОТОРЫЙ ЕМУ ДАЛИ НА «ПЕРЕДЕРЖКУ»
Two of my European friends were far more involved than I ever suspected when they were both, shockingly, busted. One was unfairly sentenced to prison for ten years, and the other did something like three years—but they’d left me with a pound of heroin in my closet to hold onto until . . . ? Although I was now a slave to coke, I wasn’t hooked yet on the other one, but I sure was ready. I’d snorted it several times over the last two years and liked it too much; it went down so easy, and you could top it with coke to go the other way—easy as an elevator ride.
That was the devil in my closet. I see it still. A Pandora’s box staring back at me every day. Do not open. In a film, it becomes a woman, then a snake or something else, shape-shifting. This is what I was doing in my wasted life. As a writer, as a druggie, I was shape-shifting. I eyed that pound of heroin for two weeks, beautiful waxy brown wrapping paper, string-tied, ready to open. I never did. I resisted, and at my request, another friend picked it up and, as I mourned, took it away forever.
I knew in my gut that the only way that I—and Elizabeth—could break this chain was to get out of a town where most of the people I enjoyed being with were into cocaine, quaaludes, and other drugs. You can’t possibly shake this addiction without changing your daily habits, the faces of acquaintances and friends, and the insistent pressures of a business driven to make money. On a larger scale, I was looking at a forced exile from my new home in paradise. Three short years before, I had thought LA was it. But now I was scared of it; in fact I hated it, the sunshine, the sea, everything!
ПРИЕМ ЛСД ПЕРЕД ПРОХОЖДЕНИЕМ ЗАЧЕТА ПО АКТЕРСКОМУ МАСТЕРСТВУ
My own acting, in any case, was muffled and thought-bound. I couldn’t get out of myself—fly like a bird, be free! Once I got stuck in the pompous role of Thomas Becket, my Russian-born teacher scolding me constantly, until one night I dropped LSD and stopped by the class and played the shit out of this old twelfth-century archbishop. She applauded wildly, told me I’d finally arrived at its meaning, and praised me to the class. Yet on the LSD I had no idea what I’d done. I just did it. But how could I repeat the performance? I had no clue.
СКОРСЕЗЕ - УЧИТЕЛЬ
Стоун вспоминает, как во время учебы в кинт-школе Мартин Скорсезе читал им лекции по истории кино.
Marty Scorsese, NYU’s star graduate, then in his mid-twenties, who’d made some celebrated short films and was struggling through various stages of a low-budget feature, Who’s That Knocking on My Door? He’d soon make Mean Streets, which would become his entrée to Hollywood.
Marty sported greasy hair down to his shoulders and a very fast, high-pitched, nervous New York accent.
He’d generally be a mess in our morning class, as he’d stay up sometimes till dawn to watch old movies on television, because in those days before videocassettes, there were a limited number of repertory theaters in the city.
I’ll never forget his spontaneous lecture on the greatness of Josef von Sternberg’s expressionistic madness in The Scarlet Empress (1934) with Marlene Dietrich. Marty clearly worshiped cinema as intensely in his way as the young protagonist did God in Robert Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest (1951), and his classes were fun, punctuated by rapid-fire dialogues, irreverence at every level, but at the same time, he understood the sacred stakes we were playing for and that very few of us in these classes would succeed. I know I felt this, perhaps because I was older than most of my classmates.
ИЛЛЮЗИЯ ПОСТ-ТРАВМАТИЧЕСКОГО РАССТРОЙСТВА PTSD
По мнению Стоуна PTSD — это выдумка психиатров, иначе бы кругом по улицам бродили миллионы граждан, свихнушихся на почве «стресса жизни».
When the media started talking about “posttraumatic stress disorder”—PTSD—I didn’t believe it. I thought it was bullshit, ’cause if it were true, there were millions of civilians running around with it. They were nuts, stressed out over nothing, but still they were suffering the same way I was. But I didn’t want pity, I didn’t want some lame excuse as a Vietnam vet to ask for extra money and all that whining crap I hated in the complainers, the groaners; there were so many of them in the army.
ПРИМЕР PTSD ОТ СТОУНА НА ЛИЧНОМ ОПЫТЕ
Оливер рассказывает, как пытаясь налаживать жизнь после возвращения из Вьетнама он инстинктивно падал на асфальт при резком звуке выхлопа от проезжающей машины:
Eventually, at her invitation, I moved uptown from my hole to her place. Incongruities persisted. I’d be walking down a New York sidewalk with Najwa in daylight when a car would suddenly backfire and I’d plunge to the pavement. She was quite slow by my standards as she looked casually for the source of the sound, then turned back, wondering where I’d gone. It took her a while to understand how much my instincts and fear controlled me.
ЗАКАЛЕННОСТЬ СУРОВЫМИ УСЛОВИЯМИ В ДЖУНГЛЯХ
Стоун описывает как он мог, сняв ужасную квартирку с ветродунйми окнами, выживать в условиях ужасного холода благодаря военной закалке.
I was weird, vaguely on the lookout for death. I moved next into a walkup at Mott and Houston Streets with heating problems. It didn’t matter that winter, as I got used to freezing, and sometimes six inches of snow would accumulate next to my kitchen table when I left the window open.
ОДИССЕЙ И БУДДА
To my mind, Odysseus is a Western hero parallel to Gautama Buddha in the Eastern tradition. But it’s telling that to the Western mind, killing your rivals and reclaiming your wife and property has far more resonance than the story of Buddha’s life, which embraces nonviolence. And that’s why, in my own life, I kept coming back to Odysseus as an example of conscious behavior. I drew sustenance from it. If he could stick it out, so could I.
ОДИССЕЙ И «ВЗВОД» — АЛЛЕГОРИЯ
In my script, I’d model my alter ego on Odysseus, the wanderer struggling to find his way home. A young man without identifying traits beyond a vague educated-class status who goes innocently into hell and comes out the other side—a man darkened by his experience. I’d read Edith Hamilton and Robert Graves and loved the actions and fates of the multiple characters that appeared in Greek myth, which had essentially disappeared from our culture. That’s why Professor Tim Leahy at NYU, whose class I’d taken outside the film school, struck lightning with me in a classical drama course; he’d rage about the fate of Odysseus.
НАПИСАНИЕ СЦЕНАРИЯ «DEMOLISHED MAN» (АЛЬФРЕД БЕСТЕР)
Человек без лица (роман) — Википедия
In this period I wrote another script for Ed Pressman, “Demolished Man,” from Alfred Bester’s classic sci-fi novel, which I thought was the best thing I did after Conan, but it was equally difficult to film. A story of “ESPers” who could communicate through various degrees of telepathy, it was also an Oedipal detective story of murder. I changed the main character from a male to a female detective, but it had so many technical complications, it required a firm directorial hand and a new technology of sound. Although admired in some quarters, the script faced the usual slow death of the unrealized film.
КОКАИНОВЫЙ ГОЛЛИВУД
I finally met Brad Davis, the hot new star of Midnight Express; he seemed a volatile, angry young man who grew in the part. He was close to the real Billy Hayes, and the three of us ended up sharing alcohol, quaaludes, and some cocaine, which was making its reappearance in Hollywood as a party drug back in vogue, I believe, for the first time since the 1920s. There were always private users, but this was a popular, just-below-the-surface public thing with younger actors beginning to enjoy it. It was sexy, innocuous enough, and fun. It sparked great energy and laughs, and was nothing more to me—at first. A terrific burst of “friendly fire,” yes, but I already had great energy. So I’d do it here and there, including at the Globes, which was known as a fun and unexamined party, not at all like the Oscars.
(...)
The parties would go from showy business events to intimate and naughty. There was a night at a small dinner party of drinking and drugs I remember for its novelty of watching the brilliant, witty Gore Vidal try to seduce Mick Jagger, whom he wanted to star in the movie of his new novel Kalki, which of course he wanted me to adapt—and suggesting we might have a threesome. I could write it at his villa in Italy in Ravello. Surely, why not? Cocaine was flourishing. It came in with the disco scene of Barry White and Donna Summer, it was fast and smart like the music business; movies, if anything, were too square, unhip. Cocaine sparked great energy and laughs, and there didn’t seem to be a real downside. Not then. We were young, and we had money to burn. This is what my mother dreamed would be her life—in fantasy. And she certainly lived it out in parties after her divorce. But she was never satisfied, and she would, in coming years, come out to parties with me.
(...)
But I could be ruthless in those days. I was a star. It was 1980 in a cocaine arisin’ Hollywood. Midnight Express had made “Oliver Stone” one of the most sought-after. I wanted what I wanted
(...)
By this time, it seemed anywhere I went in Los Angeles, a sizable minority of the acting and creative population, along with many agents and young executives, were doing cocaine—or was this my paranoia? There was a shocking report in the LA Times in 1980 that an estimated 40 to 75 percent of NBA players were using it. There was a glamorous restaurant on Sunset in West Hollywood called Roy’s with the latest in Chinese-Italian fusion cooking, with coke being done at the tables or in the restrooms—it was great fun. Hundred-dollar bills were used to snort and tip.
СВАДЬБА ПОД КОКАИНОМ
I had smoked grass, taken a quaalude, and snorted some cocaine beforehand, and I don’t remember a thing, because the real wedding only began at the big party that night out at the rented mansion in the suburbs with cars, mariachi band, a beautiful porch, strings of lanterns, merry young people. Although I was partying hard, I was thinking about how Elizabeth and I could make love afterwards. We had to have sex on our wedding night, it was part of the mythology. But cocaine left me with a semi-paralyzed orgasm, often belated, if at all, and in the end, unsatisfactory. She insisted on staying up with her friends, and I don’t even remember going to bed that night. Elizabeth was as smashed as I was. As a result, the ceremony was meaningless.
ОПАСНАЯ РЕЧЬ НА ВРУЧЕНИИ «ЗОЛОТОГО ГЛОБУСА» ЗА «MIDNIGHT EXPRESS» (1979)
So it was after a few hits of coke, a quaalude or two, several glasses of wine over three hours, that finally my name was called for screenwriting adaptation. Not that I was surprised, because many people had told me I’d win. I felt like a racehorse they were betting on, and I’d come in on a two-to-one bet. The applause was tremendous in my ears, the ballroom floating in the pure joy of this moment. My rebel side had been restive the whole night, or perhaps since I’d seen Parker’s glum face earlier, and it reminded me of all the indignities he’d piled on me. Who knows? The devil was in me that night. And here we were, at a ceremony with all the people who’d rejected Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July and lavished applause on a bunch of television cop shows up for awards. I’d seen the shows, disliked most of them, representing the triumph of Nixon’s “law and order” world, jailing the underclass, the black, the Spanish as “bad guy” drug dealers, outsiders. All these actors and producers being lauded for fawning over cops. I hated the whole self-congratulatory air of the night.
There was something else growing inside me, but I couldn’t articulate it. I’d seen it in Vietnam. That the US was always quite ready to lecture others on how to behave, be it about drugs or human rights, while ignoring our own giant appetite for drugs at home. I’d always despised bullies, at school, in war, and now I was finding them here, in my dream city—Hollywood. But far more subtly. The biggest bullies quietly control the airwaves, the content, the attitude, and you do not veer too far from what is “thinkable.” So when I got to center stage to accept my Golden Globe and have my moment, I started to explain to the audience what I was really thinking, which wasn’t necessary, but certainly Brad’s and Billy’s faces were egging me on. I was trying to say something like this, which is far more articulate, probably, than what I said.
“Our film’s not just about Turkey . . . but our society. You know, we arrest people for drugs, and we throw them in jail . . . and we make heroes of the people who do that . . . and . . .” It was going on. Seconds. It wasn’t clear. My tongue was dry and heavy in my mouth, and I was trying too hard to explain my concept of how we condemned people to jail without recognizing what we were doing to ourselves as a nation. But it got so lost because I hadn’t written it in advance, and I was more zonked than I thought. I was losing them. I now heard a dead silence in the room . . . then the hissing started, and it grew.
ЗАСУШЕННОЕ ЧЛОВЕЧЕСКОЕ УХО В БОКАЛЕ ШАМПАНСКОГО В СЦЕНАРИИ «САЛЬВАДОРА»
Стоун описывает снятую сцену, вырезанную цензурой, в которой Полковник Figueroa демонстрирует связку трофеев — сушенных человеческих ушей, бросает одно в бокал с шампанским, которое выпивает, а затем запихивает другое ухо проститутке в рот...
As I told Riordan for his book: “Doctor Rock is getting a blowjob under a table. Boyle is fucking a girl while trying to pry information from the Colonel, and the Colonel is so drunk out of his mind that he pulls out this bag of ears [shades of Vietnam war trophies] and throws the ears on a table and says, ‘left-wing ears, right-wing ears, who gives a fuck!’ He throws an ear into a champagne glass, proposes a toast to El Salvador, and drinks the champagne with the ear in it!”
And then, improvising, the actor playing Figueroa put another ear into a whore’s open mouth!
Well, this was one step too far for our government censor, who was horrified and ran to Green, who in turn was terrified—there goes our export license! We sweet-talked the censor for the next two days, trying to keep things quiet, and I presume Gerald pulled out every stop to keep the ship afloat. Later, because of pressure from the American side over sexual content, it was all chopped up in the editing room anyway, losing impact. I believe South American and European audiences would’ve understood the madness inherent in this scene, but when we screened it for American audiences, it just didn’t work the same way. Why? Because, as it was then perceived, perhaps less so now, audiences were dependent on categorizations.
ПОЧТИ СМЕРТЕЛЬНЫЙ ИНЦИДЕНТ С ВЕРТОЛЕТОМ НА «ВЗВОДЕ»
One day we were filming the evacuation by several choppers of dead and wounded GIs. The winds were getting rougher in the late afternoon as Sheen, Berenger, Forest Whitaker, Keith David, Bob Richardson and his assistant camera operator, Dale Dye, myself, three “dead” soldiers, and two pilots in the Huey were lifting off from the floor of the canyon. Too many people with too much weight, trying to do too much. The chopper, having already made multiple trips and now on its last pass of the day, rose up and barely cleared the treetops. Then the walls of the canyon were suddenly coming at us in giant close-up. Way too close-up! Having been in more than thirty combat landings in Vietnam, I knew that this might be it, and I knew that Dale, on the opposite door of the chopper, knew the same thing, because the color went out of his face. It’s actually weird when you come so close to dying, how easily you can accept it. You grow very calm. Good-bye is basic, unsentimental. I don’t think anyone else in that chopper realized it, but we cleared that canyon wall by inches.
НАСИЛИЕ (VIOLENCE) ДЕЛАЕТ ТЕБЯ ЕЩЕ ХУЖЕ!
And I defended the violence in Platoon by defending its realism as opposed to the sanitized, unrealistic violence we see in television and movies. “The point is that violence ruins you, in some sense, forever. It takes a piece of your soul.” To judge from the violence that continues in today’s films, it’s become even more realistic and gruesome than in previous years, but its meaning is largely lost when one American soldier on that big screen can still manage to kill ten or twenty Somalis, Libyans, or Taliban before expiring. Why can’t Americans just die miserably like everyone else?
ДОПОЛНИТЕЛЬНО см. книгу оригинальных сценариев «Сальвадор/Взвод» на Архив-Орг
https://archive.org/details/oliverstonesplat0000ston/
В начале есть вводная статья Стоуна, где он немного рассказывает об истории создания и делится некоторыми автобиографическими деталями, которые много позднее более подробно опишет в книге «Chasing The Light».
САМЫЕ ИЗВЕСТНЫЕ КНИГИ О ВОЙНЕ ВО ВЬЕТНАМЕ
Joe Haldeman - 1968 (1995)
Tim O'Brien - 1990 The Things They Carried.A Work of Fiction