'We were as Hansel and Gretel and we ventured out into the black forest of the world. There were temptations and witches and demons we never dreamed of, and there was splendour we only partially imagined.'

Of all types of literature, autobiography has until now been my least favoured. I don't profess to have read enough of this genre to make a particularly well informed judgement, but autobiographies have always seemed to me to be self-pitying, self-congratulating, courting fame and sympathy and just generally being written with mercenary intentions. I read Russell Brand's two autobiographies and found them highly entertaining. There may have been certain memories or events recounted which were affecting and/or enlightening, but on the whole it was just a light-hearted, comic, quick-read which wouldn't be classed as a literary success- more of a written documentation of his fantastical verbal effusions. 

Whilst I was in Miami in February I stopped by Books & Books on Lincoln for a browse. With an afternoon to fill there's nothing better than coffee, people watching, flicking through art books and reading the blurbs of countless paperbacks on the shelves. On a mid-shelf down one of the narrow through-rooms of the cosy little store I saw an unassuming black book cover with a small black and white double portrait and simple white text. 'New York Bestseller. Just Kids. Patti Smith.' The paper is quite thick, like parchment, with rough edges which gives the book a love-worn feel. The text throughout is interspersed with black and white photos, sketches and excerpts from poems like a scrapbook.

I didn't know much about Patti Smith before I started reading. I remembered seeing her in the Annie Leibovitz documentary 'Life through a lens' where she was photographed infront of a flaming trashcan- a photo which became a cover for Rolling Stone. So I knew she was a 'rockstar', that she had a famed androgynous look and that she had a relationship with the enigmatic Robert Mapplethorpe. I was not prepared for the astounding poetic beauty of the writing.

I can honestly say that it one of the most intensely moving, profoundly affecting books I've ever read. It was so real, truthful and honest-it was like reading a close friend's diary. You feel the pain and elation of every high and low. You sympathise on every level with the conflicting sense of both love between Smith and Mapplethorpe and the need for self-expression and one's own identity. It is a record of artistic struggle, a love letter to a lost soul-mate and a sweet ballad to New York City. It is partly what you may expect from a rock and roll musician but it is mostly so very much more.

'Wild leaves are falling

Falling to the ground.

Every leaf a moment,

A light upon the crown

That we'll all be wearing

In a time unbound;

And wild leaves are falling, 

Falling to the ground.'

'It's not where you go. It's how you get there.'

Such is the tagline of Gus Van Sant's 1991 film starring River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves. The storyline is a very loose adaptation of Shakespeare's Henry IV: a young man (Reeves) forsakes the privilege and pomp of his wealthy family to run wild on the streets under the tutelage of the charismatic but corrupt drunkard Bob Pigeon. Reeves' character, Scott, knows that his time amongst the raucous group of street dwellers is only temporary, as once he comes of age he will make the transformation from self confessed 'fuck up' to suave businessman to earn his father's respect and love. River Phoenix is a friend and fellow hustler on the street who ropes Reeves into a road trip of self discovery and adventure on a mission to find his mother.

I must admit that watching this old (ish) film I was prejudiced by my conception of what is a stereotypical 'road-trip' film. You know the type: mindless humour, gratuitous nudity and awkward sexual experiences. With possibly the exception of Thelma and Louise, which in my opinion is a poignant and sentimental portrayal of female friendship, most road-trip films are male centred but only shown from the take of the journey being about 'bromance'.

My own private Idaho is completely different. The relationship between Scott and Mike is shown with such beautiful realism. It's touching and sentimental but not over-done. It's not idealised and there's no 'happy ending' as far as the friendship goes but you know that there was, for a time, genuine feelings of camaraderie and (on different levels) love between the two men. 

Keanu Reeves may not have honed his skills as a multi-dimensional actor- he is just as monotone as Neo in the Matrix- but it sort of works in this context. He is a young man on the brink of adulthood-conflicted but also remarkably self assured. His slow development is quite sweet. River Phoenix is spectacular as a love-torn, emotionally fragile, innocent yet socially astute young man. His facial expressions, body language and tone of voice is so subtle and gentle that over the course of the film you see how much of a total, fully-psychologized character Phoenix has created. This man is having such a range of sexual and social experiences which he believes he has control over but he is so obviously damaged and affected by the loss of his mother. He is haunted by this idea of himself as a young child with his mother outside the family home. The pastel hued, hazy flashbacks which spring in a sporadic manner through the narrative whenever Mike feels threatened, are rose-tinted reminders of the domesticity and stable relationship which Mike lacks and so obviously craves. Although he has become part of this dysfunctional sort of family of hustlers, thieves and drug-addicts he yearns for something more enduring which he believes he may recapture upon finding his mother, or perhaps with Scott. Yet upon the double disappointment of Scott's italian romance and the realisation of his mother's eternal absence from his life he becomes more settled than he ever has been. The double funeral of 'fathers' at the climax of the film makes you question the disparity between the family you are born with and the family you choose for yourself. Which is more real? Which more understanding? Which more capable of supporting and loving you?