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Impostor: or whatever happened to Richard Beymer?
A fictional autobiography of a self-obsessed Hollywood actor¿s failed attempt to find out who he is in the midst of madness, murder, mayhem, masturbation and meditation, while secretly making home movies of the girl next door with his 1950¿s wind-up Bell and Howell 16 mm camera.
317 pages, Paperback
First published September 5, 2007
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 8, 2008
Excerpt from expanded/reworked version at Viewpoints.com:
George Richard Beymer's book Impostor, is about a lot of things; his short-lived, or at least, sporadic, career in Hollywood, his life, what he's done, what happened to him, failed relationships, childhood and teenage memories, death, reincarnation, and repeated descents into madness, filtered through perceptions and writings he kept for decades, and the taped and videotaped conversations of other people. It's one of those pieces of writing where you must pay very detailed attention because he reveals himself mostly in the things he doesn't say or things that are hinted at.
In Richard's exploration of self, I was given a rare glimpse into an inner sanctum which explores the question, "What am I doing here in this Madhouse ... Again?", and there is not one iota of self-pity or arrogance to be found. The book simply is what it is: obscenely blunt, unutterably sad, wildly imaginative, artistically sensitive, fiercely intelligent, often painfully humorous ... and just painful, mixed up in a blendered psychedelic dreamscape of ever-shifting and jarring perceptions and points of view. Characters are not who they seem to be, I was in and out of recognizable time and space; but what it most felt like was Alice down the Rabbit Hole. And this is all quite good, actually. I believe it's a disorientation the author intends the reader to have: "Now you see George (or, Richard?) now you don't."
One of the most striking things about reading the book, for me, were the huge waves of emotion that carried me from one crest to another, not always pleasant, that had me questioning myself, "He did that?", "He really said that?" (when reading, you don't actually know that he did for sure, one way or the other, and that is kind of the beauty of it) but also, "Why did Richard have to endure this and for so long? What unthinkable essential element drove him to live like an impassive observer trapped within his own head. Was there really any joy, or should I say, "real" joy during this long, long period?
For me, because of the personal connection I felt and feel for the author, what I observed reading between the lines, was highly upsetting. So much so that the first night I began reading the book, I woke in the middle of the night unable to sleep, in tears. Finding out later that what I had perceived was not necessarily true to the extent I originally thought, was a profound relief. This is neither a condemnation of the power of my perceptions or the intensity of the book itself; rather, it illustrates how a reader can be taken with a certain aspect of a book, in my case, believing certain personal details in their heightened state to be absolute. That's the one of the powerful pulls of this book, for me, in hindsight. The writing, or collage writing, as the author puts it, devised in such a way to give the reader a profound experience without totally exposing the author's life experience.
George Richard Beymer's book Impostor, is about a lot of things; his short-lived, or at least, sporadic, career in Hollywood, his life, what he's done, what happened to him, failed relationships, childhood and teenage memories, death, reincarnation, and repeated descents into madness, filtered through perceptions and writings he kept for decades, and the taped and videotaped conversations of other people. It's one of those pieces of writing where you must pay very detailed attention because he reveals himself mostly in the things he doesn't say or things that are hinted at.
In Richard's exploration of self, I was given a rare glimpse into an inner sanctum which explores the question, "What am I doing here in this Madhouse ... Again?", and there is not one iota of self-pity or arrogance to be found. The book simply is what it is: obscenely blunt, unutterably sad, wildly imaginative, artistically sensitive, fiercely intelligent, often painfully humorous ... and just painful, mixed up in a blendered psychedelic dreamscape of ever-shifting and jarring perceptions and points of view. Characters are not who they seem to be, I was in and out of recognizable time and space; but what it most felt like was Alice down the Rabbit Hole. And this is all quite good, actually. I believe it's a disorientation the author intends the reader to have: "Now you see George (or, Richard?) now you don't."
One of the most striking things about reading the book, for me, were the huge waves of emotion that carried me from one crest to another, not always pleasant, that had me questioning myself, "He did that?", "He really said that?" (when reading, you don't actually know that he did for sure, one way or the other, and that is kind of the beauty of it) but also, "Why did Richard have to endure this and for so long? What unthinkable essential element drove him to live like an impassive observer trapped within his own head. Was there really any joy, or should I say, "real" joy during this long, long period?
For me, because of the personal connection I felt and feel for the author, what I observed reading between the lines, was highly upsetting. So much so that the first night I began reading the book, I woke in the middle of the night unable to sleep, in tears. Finding out later that what I had perceived was not necessarily true to the extent I originally thought, was a profound relief. This is neither a condemnation of the power of my perceptions or the intensity of the book itself; rather, it illustrates how a reader can be taken with a certain aspect of a book, in my case, believing certain personal details in their heightened state to be absolute. That's the one of the powerful pulls of this book, for me, in hindsight. The writing, or collage writing, as the author puts it, devised in such a way to give the reader a profound experience without totally exposing the author's life experience.
April 22, 2020
"MARIE: When I was little, I always felt someone was watching me but I could never see who it was. Then I created a camera in my mind that was filming me ... everything I did, my thoughts ... even my dreams were somehow being recorded. It allowed me to get pictures of myself when I realized I was totally unconscious. Then I would remember this film being made and it would bring me back ... but I would never let on that I knew."
July 17, 2023
I've read and reread over and over and still.....I'm so confused. His movies and acting were so simple and light. His writing is just the opposite. The mystery of him remains. On a personal note he was born February 20 and I was born March 20. We're both Pisces and both born on a cusp. He's Aquarius and I'm Aries. When you look it up we should have been soulmates.
July 30, 2011
The weirdest unique written work I've ever read. Mr. Beymer takes you on a ride inside of his entire life in the structure of an unauthorized autobiography written as a movie script. A difficult read, kind of like a mirror funhouse through multiple camera lenses that can be hard to follow at times but also keeps you guessing as to what is fake and what is real in Mr. Beymer's life story. If you can find another written work anywhere near this please let me know."
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews