How Marlon Brando’s Audio Tapes Became the Narration for ‘Listen to Me Marlon’

I was by no means a Brando expert at the outset. I had admired his famous performances in films such as “The Godfather,” “Last Tango in Paris” and “Apocalypse Now,” but was quite clueless beyond that. What enticed me to the project early on was the apparent complexity of the man. Every book that I picked up seemed to start and finish with the same refrain: “Who was the real Marlon Brando?” On occasions he did chose to address the media, he’d often cast a smokescreen of mistruth and mystery around himself, desperate to deflect attention away from the fame that he so despised.  

I booked a trip to the States to meet privately with many people who were close to Brando, including family, friends, domestic staff and fellow actors. The notes that I collected from those conversations served me greatly in forging a deeper understanding of Brando’s personality, but I was still left unclear as to who the documentary’s key interviewees might be. Brando revealed himself as suspicious and temperamental and would ditch friendships at the merest provocation. It became clear that few people were around long enough in his life to adequately tell his story.

I cringed that the film might become a sequence of disparate talking heads. The project appeared ever more doomed, but I remained buoyed by the creative challenge of cracking Brando and capturing something of his true soul and essence. It was not long before serendipity gifted me with a solution. 

Part of the agreement with the Brando estate was that they’d release to us all archives in their possession. By huge fortune, at that very same time the documentary was getting off the ground, the estate had begun unboxing and cataloguing all of Marlon’s personal possessions that had been locked in storage for 10 years since his death. All sorts of fascinating materials had started emerging — scripts, personal letters, photos, home video and, more significantly, a growing number of audio reels and tapes. 

 

I requested a random handful of the tapes and was granted the extraordinary privilege of first listen. I was astonished by what I heard.  

There was a private recording in which Brando recounted memories of growing up in Nebraska to a violent father and alcoholic mother. The next tape was more remarkable still; “listen to me Marlon, listen to my voice” it began, “think back to when you were a boy, remember those fears.” It was a self-hypnosis tape where Brando was journeying into his past to find the source of his adult pain and concomitant issues of rage; inferiority; authority; jealousy and distrust.  

I was aware that Brando had spent much of his life visiting psychotherapists, but these tapes were the equivalent of lying on the couch next to him, providing a direct access to his mind and soul.  

With more tapes on the way, I began to imagine — what if the story could be told entirely in Brando’s own words? After all, who was more qualified to the unravel the complexities and contradictions of Brando, than Brando himself?  My next sensation was one of anxiety and guilt. Knowing how private Brando was, I imagined his consternation at me rifling through his personal possessions and memories.

One tape from the 1980s helped alleviate my concerns — in it, Brando described an intention to make a documentary film of his own, one that would reveal his true identity and allow people to see behind the myth. I made it my goal to help deliver on his wish. 

The creative took fairly rapid shape in my mind. I would discard talking heads and build a visual layer to carry Brando’s words. It wouldn’t be so much a biography as a visual poem and inward odyssey into his deep psyche. Done properly, it held the promise of a something slightly new — a truly subjective documentary with unprecedented access to the inner world of its subject.