As you already heard about three days ago and talked about barbecues over the weekend, Dennis Hopper died from complications of prostate cancer on Saturday, cruelly upstaging the brief rekindling of our fondness for Gary Coleman. While Hopper will always be best known for his long and distinguished film career, his last role was as drug-addled music producer in the Starz series “Crash” (inset).
Dennis Hopper — actor, filmmaker, photographer, art collector, world-class burnout, first-rate survivor — never blew it. Unlike the villains and freaks he has played over the decades — the psycho with the mommy complex in “Blue Velvet,” the mad bomber with the grudge in “Speed” — he has made it through the good, the bad and some spectacularly terrible times. He rode out the golden age of Hollywood by roaring into a new movie era with “Easy Rider.” He hung out with James Dean, played Elizabeth Taylor’s son, acted for Quentin Tarantino. He has been rich and infamous, lost and found, the next big thing, the last man standing.
It’s safe to assume he also slayed more crazy hot tail than any of us could possibly imagine. I’d call that a pretty full life. Rest in peace, Easy Rider.
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