Written by William Hughes
1970 Award Books paperback edition.
Based on the 1970 film PERFORMANCE, written by Doanld Cammell and directed by Donald Cammell and Nicholas Roeg. It starred James Fox, Mick Jagger and Anita Pallenberg.
PERFORMANCE was made at a time when the rules of what you could do in a film were loosening. It was originally rated X in the US, before that rating became synonymous with pornography. There is nothing explicit in the film and it has subsequently been re-rated as R. It tells the story of a gangster on the run and a rock star who takes him in. The film's story is all Donald Cammell, while Nicolas Roeg handled the cinematography and editing, which like Roeg's WALKABOUT (1971) and DON'T LOOK NOW (1973) is at times non-linear and impressionistic, especially in the second half. The film remains powerful precisely because it is ultimately ambiguous as to what really happens.
The novelization tells the story much straighter than the film does, in part because the film changed during the filming of it. The plot is relayed in a linear fashion which robs the story of much of if not all of the mystique that the film has. It is not uninteresting, however, especially if you are very familiar with the film. The sex and violence is still there, which perhaps hit harder due to it not being stylized. The book explains much of what goes on clearly, and the ending is very different in execution than the film, and perhaps in story. But, as noted above, the plot of the second half of the film seemed to be re-shaped during the filming.
Well worth reading if you are a fan of the film.
Excerpt:
Number twenty-two Melbury Terrace was different from the other houses in the drab street, looked as if it belonged in another world. It was larger than the others and set back from the road, a small patch of waste round the front, obviously once a garden, but beyond recall. It looked as if it continued round the back of the house.
It was the colour that really set number twenty-two apart. Though the house looked in a poor state of repair, it had been painted in bright clashing colours---even some of the windows were painted over in deep rich patterns. On the, side of the cracked steps that led up to the front door stood a series of stone idols, eastern, Chas guessed, erotica from a monumental mason.
He spoke quietly. "Jesus wept. You've seen the lot now What a bloody Kazi."
He walked across the road and mounted the steps to the front door. The letter-box was open wide, crammed with mail. Automatically, Chas extracted some of it: air-mailed copies of the Village Voice, circulars, bills, mainly bills. He noticed that there were no English newspapers either in the slot or on the mat. He felt relieved, all the more chance of safe refuge until he could get hold of Farrell and get some of his "rainy day" money.
Chas tried to door, but it was locked. He stepped back down the steps and looked up to the first floor windows. Nothing. Most of the curtains were drawn, proclaiming that the house was still asleep. Chas put his ear to the letter-box, there was no sound from within.
Making sure that his shades were on straight and his camel's hair coat was fastened to avoid scrutiny, he leant on the bell, and was happy to hear it peel loud and long somewhere in the depths of the building.
It was seven thirty when Charles Devlin rang the bell of Turner's house, and life was never going to be the same again.
