James Dean had always been a sensitive, intelligent kid. “You have the heart of a poet,” reverend Deweerd had always told him. Back in Fairmount, the reverend had tried to guide James’ tortured soul, tried to help him find peace and serenity. Even at fifteen years old, James was already seeking out dangerous thrills, unable to fill the immense and growing void inside himself. He had passion, raging but unfocused. James Dean liked driving fast cars, violent rodeos, and wild women. He was already stunningly handsome; he had the beauty of a rebel, a cursed poet, a wild child. The reverend saw in him the gentleness of an angel and the fury of a demon. James had charmed so many audiences with the duality in his eyes. He’d captivated everyday Americans, hungry for a new type of idol. Teenagers went wild for this ‘rebel without a cause’; a young man who played by his own rules, the epitome of cool in his leather jacket with a cigarette perched between his lips. He was one of their own, a star so close and yet so ethereal.
James Dean had charmed the Italian actress Pier Angeli. The Californian coast was the perfect place for a honeymoon, with its mild climate and secluded mansions. James was a young man in love, fooling around on the beach and humming songs by the shore. His childlike spirit pushed him to drive ever faster along the highways, Pier Angeli at his side, her scarf fluttering in the wind and her sunglasses glinting in the sun. She was beautiful and hot-headed. “You’re the love of my life,” Pier Angeli had told him as they sped along Highway 466. In James, she had found a kindred spirit; together they talked about life, philosophising on the pointlessness of it all, the vanity, the need to singe your wings to forget it all, and they were happy, ludicrously happy together.
The two lovers held hands like innocent babes, staring into each other’s eyes, exchanging kisses away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. But the Californian coast was a world away from Italian tradition; James Dean was a wild young man, and a blond who smoked. Always showing up late, spurning convention and politeness. He was irresponsible and irreverent. Pier Angeli’s mother felt he was not a good Catholic — he didn’t believe in going to church or the Virgin Mary, just in his mother. Only his mother, dead from cancer, could understand him. That was until he met Pier Angeli, his angel sent from heaven. James was an orphan. His mother had left this world when he was nine, and his father abandoned him. And so James pushed the pedal even harder. He set records for his roles with Warner Bros, and on the roads. A hundred and fifty miles an hour! Whether he was riding a Triumph Tiger T110 or a Porsche 356, James Dean was never satisfied. Where had it come from, that bitterness eating away at him? Destiny stalked him on the roads of California, until one morning, at the intersection of Routes 46 and 41, they found the wreckage of his Porsche. The neighbours were alerted by a deafening noise. His friend, sitting on the ejector seat beside him, had been thrown from the car and was lying a few metres away. But James Dean was dead inside the car. The sun was rising over the coast of California when Pier Angeli picked up her telephone and broke down in tears.
Alan Alfredo Geday