Upon Allen Ginsberg’s first meeting with Lucien Carr in Kill Your Darlings, the audience is impressed with the line “Life is only interesting if life is wide,” a sentiment that would echo throughout most of the Oxford student body. The aesthetic of intellectual pursuit in the ‘university of dreams’ is captured in the essence of the quote, and this becomes a throughline for the rest of the film as the infamous poet of the Beats generation comes to his ‘literary awakening’. He soon meets William S. Borrough (Bill) and Jack Kerouac, and they come together to form ‘The New Vision’, a rebellion against institutions and the traditional form. The film provides us with the iconic image of the ‘poem wall’, representative of the cut-up method in poetry. Only through the most visceral breakdown of form and language, the characters insist, can new meaning be formed.
“armed with a burning patience…”
So far so good, right? Kill Your Darlings seems to be the typical ‘dark academia’ film, playing into the subject matter of intellectual curiosity and passion for the arts we’d expect it to. Lucien, the love interest and the ‘chaos factor’ in the film, is presented as an enigmatic figure straight off the bat. His first scene with Ginsberg is already very quotable– “I love first times. I want my whole life to be composed of them.” This is aided by how the film is technically an autobiography of the poets’ university lives, so there’s an added layer of interest, for those in the know, about how the directors and actors interpret the lives of these figures.
In this way, their lives, initially, are not so different from the average Oxford student. The characters navigate the academic space of Columbia University, and the vibrant, cultural New York City. Daniel Radcliffe plays Allen Ginsberg as awkward and out-of-place amidst his experienced peers, who slowly lets loose as he attends more parties and literary readings (all the while doing more drugs). The libraries are gorgeous, the typewriters are a vibe, and his relationship with Carr ticks the dark academia box for intense queer yearning (see: Dead Poets Society, The Secret History etc).
The entire film has a soft, mellow colour palette, giving it a sense of nostalgia – it looks like it’s walked out of a Pinterest board. This juxtaposes with the sense of urgency that shapes the first half of the film. Characters are constantly pacing the floor, frantically clacking away on typewriters, all while accompanied by fast-paced jazz. Scenes cut abruptly to one another. Unlike some Oxford students (myself), however, the characters enjoy the catharsis of pulling off acts of rebellion—stealing ships, breaking and entering into the restricted section, whilst being perfectly content with suffering the consequences. They enjoy intellectual satisfaction outside the boundaries of institutionalised education, which can be empowering to watch.
There is also the dramatic irony of knowing that this charismatic cast is not just hot air, but will go on to change the literary scene in America forever. The chaos is worth it, the panic is worth it—there might even be beauty in it. And whilst I stare into the distance in whatever library I’m locked in for the day, this provides some comfort and hope, so maybe I can romanticise my degree for one day more.
“…but you are fortunate in your ignorance, in your isolation”
This idealisation of the first half of the film, however, can only occur if you ignore the first scene of the film, which depicts Lucien dragging a man out of the water. Upon first watch, I was quite happy to continue ignoring it since it was such a whiplash compared to the rest of the film. All the characters’ ‘rebellions’ had so far not been destructive, merely done to prove a point. They are lengths I can imagine the average student being able to go to if given enough courage.
Only later do I find out that the man killed is Lucien’s former lover, David, Lucien being his killer. This reveal is built up slowly throughout the film as the façade of perfect literary attainment breaks. On the night when Allen goes to his first ‘literary gathering’, for example, he ignores his mother’s phone call for help, and when he does go home, he is too late: his father has already sent his mother to an asylum. We also learn that Lucien is merely relying on David to write his essays to get through his course, revealing himself as a phoney, and not half as brilliant as our, or Allen’s, initial impression.
The trailer describes the film as a story of obsession and murder. Though this obviously applies to the unhealthy relationships between David and Lucien, and Lucien and Allen, this obsession extends to the characters’ literary pursuits, which detach them from reality. Allen is so enamoured with Lucien’s literary persona that it blinds him to Lucien’s cruelty to David. Lucien frequently makes impulsive plans to run away, leaving for good, without these plans ever coming to fruition. “I’m only good at beginnings,” he laments. Ironically, Lucien benefits from the institutions he spends the whole film preaching to undermine. He gets away from the murder charge by claiming David to be a sexual predator and himself as heterosexual, taking advantage of the systemic homophobia in the American constitution at the time. Bill also gets away scot-free because of his family’s immense wealth. In these aspects, the privilege of these characters is reminiscent of Oxford’s own past, and, many may argue, its present. Only Allen truly breaks free of the system by leaving Columbia University, unwilling to change his final term paper. He actually gets to witness the liberation in Paris, unlike Lucien who mentions this as a fleeting fancy. And again, due to the autobiographical nature of the film, we know that Ginsberg does go on to be a renowned name in free-verse poetry. His is a genuine rebellion.
“Lest we die unbloomed.”
The need to make a mark on the world is, I’m sure, shared by many Oxford students, yet we operate within the comfort of a world-renowned institution. When in Oxford, it is easy, and sometimes even encouraged, to ignore the outside world in our academic pursuits. Kill Your Darlings offers a similar paradox—it is difficult to create change without already having some form of power, yet at the same time the characters are desperate to break free of the system that gives them that power. In my chase for academic perfection, I hope also to find my identity and voice outside of Oxford. The film ends with an affirmation of Ginsberg’s literary pursuits— “And like all lovers and sad people, I am a poet.” It comes full circle with Ginsberg’s words opening and closing the film, ultimately a message of hope and triumph.