By Michael E. Miller
By Ryan Yousefi
By Kyle Munzenrieder
By Sabrina Rodriguez
By Michael E. Miller
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Luther Campbell
By Kyle Munzenrieder
It has been a long and curious journey. Stuart grew up in Kent outside of London, skipped college and promptly moved to Soho, entering the film business at seventeen with a BBC documentary called The Hollow Moment, a portrait of the generation caught between punk and the lingering "cultural hangover of the Sixties." From there he plunged into the theater of ambition, a "young hustler in Armani suits," eventually co-producing Nicolas Roeg's Insignificance at the age of 28. Frustrated by the moribund British film industry, he turned to writing novels. His first effort, Glory B., examined the travails of a female pop-singing sensation. The War Zone, a dark and disturbingly believable study of incest, followed shortly thereafter. Told from the perspective of an angry young boy -- a witness to his sister's seduction and conquest of their father -- the book details the destruction of a family through an act of betrayal, as the mounting corruption spreads an inexorable stain of evil throughout the family. Bleak and uncompromising, War Zone perfectly captures the blind rages of adolescence and the relentless crush of fate and destiny: "It's like the level of life we all think we live on only scratches the surface. We're blind to the rest, except when violence or anguish or some other kind of pain and beauty makes us break through, forces us to glimpse a larger world."
The larger world of horror struck in 1987 when three-year-old Joe Buffalo Stuart -- the only child of Stuart and his then wife, Ann Totterdell -- was diagnosed with cancer, one of those watershed events in life that shatters all that has gone before. The couple sold their apartment in London, took a cheaper place in Brighton on the coast of England, and quit working to spend every possible moment with their son. The family wrote a children's book together during the long struggle, Henry and the Sea, and moved into Joe's hospital room toward the end. Stuart finished War Zone, the novel that brought him England's Whitbread Prize and a dose of celebrity, as his son lay dying in a cancer ward. After Joe's death, in January 1989, the couple collaborated on a nonfiction account of their family -- 5 Times 3: The Short Life and Death of Joe Buffalo Stuart -- and then split up. "I couldn't imagine," he remembers, "going on as a couple without Joe."
Stuart, half-crazed and yet empowered by loss ("When you've lost a child, there's not much anybody can really do to you"), traveled to Miami on business in 1990 and decided to take a seasonal apartment, attracted to the "heat and sensuality, the clash of cultures and experiences." Tribes, a hard-edged examination of violent English soccer fans, was published two years later. He has since written the screenplay for Roeg's upcoming production of War Zone and is working on a nonfiction book about Florida entitled Life on Mars. In Miami he fell into a life light years removed from cozy old London -- the dinners with David Hockney and such -- and started hanging out in clubs with kids too young to be burdened by history.
He wound up writing an article called "Strangers in Paradise" for the Independent about his new friends, documenting the netherside of the district. Children of privilege, ignored and indulged, sexually abused, simply lost: tripping during school, going through rehab at fourteen, staying out all night on the streets. Over time he met and fell in love with a nineteen-year-old girl, very hip and very centered, and found the new beginning he had sought from America. "My life was upside down," he recalls. "I'd been freed, in a horrible way, from all those adult problems, the mortgage and all that. At my age you watch your friends grow old before your eyes. I wanted to be young in the sense of starting life fresh. These kids are struggling against the cynicism of middle-age and trying to make moral choices. They still care about things.
"I'd always been drawn to the chaos of clubs, the dodgy people you'd meet, going back as far as far as the Vortex, this punk place in Soho. In the late Eighties, when acid house really hit, you'd go into these warehouse spaces and everybody would be ripped on Ecstasy, taking their clothes off on top of the speakers and just going wild. The kids there don't have any money, unlike here -- you have fifteen-year-olds selling themselves for a few pounds in the West End -- it all got fairly rough and gritty.