Routinely dismissed as a right-wing crank by the Hollywood establishment - he was once dubbed the "Herman Goering of film directors" - the bearish Californian presides over a body of work exponentially more complex than the two-dimensional ballyhoo for which he is chiefly remembered.
As a teenager, Milius dreamt of a career in professional surfing. When his ambitions foundered in a swell of hard partying and strong liquor, he plumbed for the army - only to be rejected because of his chronic asthma. He regarded movie-making as a distraction, figuring it would pass the time until he blustered his way into the military. At USC film school, his barbed 1967 Italian art house pastiche, Marcello, I'm So Bored, brought him to the attention of studio bigwigs. In 1971, Milius became the first writer to command a six-figure advance after his script for the western, The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean, sparked a ferocious bidding war.
Un-credited rewrite work on Dirty Harry multiplied his asking price. In 1973, he was hired to pen a sequel, Magnum Force, for which he conceived the immortal "Are you feeling lucky, Punk?" monologue. A year later, a rough-hewn directorial début, Dillinger, encapsulated the Milius manifesto: don't trust authority, never betray your principles, always pack a whopping big firearm.
The late 1970s was a golden period that saw Milius step outside his reactionary instincts. He transcended himself on Spielberg's proto-blockbuster, Jaws, scripting Robert Shaw's marrow-curdling "USS Indianapolis" speech, and gained mainstream acceptance as co-writer of Coppola's Apocalypse Now. In 1982, he made a star of guttural young body builder Arnold Scharzenegger, casting the monosyllabic Austrian as Robert E. Howard's pulp anti-hero, Conan the Barbarian. The lusty fantasy was a high-water mark. Milius thereafter floundered beneath Hollywood's resurgent liberal tide. His last major directorial outing, 1984's clumsy Cold War parable, Red Dawn, copper-fastened his popular image as tinseltown's resident Nazi (it didn't help that he won a berth on the National Rifle Association's ruling council). He has since carved a living scripting straight- to-video tosh, only popping above the parapet in 1994 for the Tom Clancy thriller, Clear and Present Danger.
Now nudging 60, the old warhorse couldn't give a fig: "I've suffered loss in my career for not being obedient. Believe me, the loss was little compared to the fear all you elite \ stomach every day. When the sun sets, I can sing My Way with Elvis, Frank Sinatra and Richard Nixon. What is your anthem?"
Edward Power
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