The voice of The Doors
fell silent on July 3rd, 1971. James Douglas Morrison
dies from a heart attack in Paris at the age of 27. On July 7th,
he's buried in a discreet ceremony at the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Even today,
there are too many rumors, fantasies, and mysteries surrounding his death. Los Angeles, 1971,
Jim Morrison has the world at his feet. After six groundbreaking years,
six albums, and over 200 concerts, Morrison is a fabulous,
angel-faced showman and shaman. A living legend. The Dionysus of Rock
is also a fragile divinity, tormented by the pressures of celebrity
and his own more personal demons. When I first met Jim,
I knew he was different. I knew, to quote him, "Something is wrong."
"Something is not quite right." Then, at other times,
he was so vibrant and creative that I thought
that he'd live forever and be strong. I watched his gradual disintegration over the years of being a stage performer, and I realized,
as brilliant as he was at it, he didn't want to be an actor,
and it had become an act for him. At the height of their fame,
The Doors suddenly crashed down to earth. The turning point
was a concert in Miami in November 1969. In a supercharged atmosphere,
Morrison provokes the audience. He's accused of indecent exposure
on stage. An arrest warrant is served against him
and the risk of prison is only too real. Where you have children
from 9 to 14 years of age being subjected to such obscenities,
certainly immediate action is demanded. Let me say, Jim did not expose himself. I was on stage. They never proved indecent exposure. No one had a photo of Jim
with any of his private parts showing, although there were hundreds
of photographs, at least dozens of photographs,
shown at the trial. The suit drags on for two years and The Doors are temporarily banned
from performing. Jim is reviled in the press
and by America's moralists. The icon has the traits of a fallen angel. He's no longer the dynamic Adonis
of his early years, and he wants
to put his rock star status behind him. In March 1971,
Jim makes the decision to leave The Doors. He announces his departure
during recording sessions for their final album, L.A. Woman. I can remember
we were mixing Riders on the Storm when he was telling us this. The song Riders on the Storm
has an ominous quality with the rain, thunder, and whatever. Maybe there was something in that song that indicated that something was coming. His death. We were pretty clear
that he wasn't coming back. Jim wasn't the kind of person
that you lured back with money, hits, or the "you could be a star again." He wasn't very interested in that. It was pretty clear
that he'd made a life decision and was going to pursue his real soul,
which was being a writer. On March 11th, Jim Morrison leaves L.A. We were waiting
for the plane to be announced, and because we were talking and drinking,
we missed the announcement of the plane, or maybe the announcement
wasn't made in the bar area. Jim had to come back the next day
to catch the plane for Paris. Maybe subconsciously,
we didn't want him to go. The next time I saw a trace of Jim
was at the Père Lachaise, at his grave. Morrison flies into Paris
on March 12th, 1971. On arriving, he moves
into the George V Hotel for a few days, joining Pamela Courson, his girlfriend, who was already been in Paris
for three weeks. A few days later,
they moved into an apartment at 17 Rue Beautreillis
in the Marais district. The couple is subletting
from a young model, Elisabeth Larivière. I saw a man with great hair. He was charming. He came in and sat down. He didn't say much the first few days,
but then we became friends. He was adorable. Pamela and Jim would live here
for four months. A haven for the former rock star. At the time, Jim occupied this bedroom
overlooking the courtyard and spent much of the daytime here,
hoping to escape his worst enemy: alcohol. He had big yellow notebooks, spiral-bound,
and he would write all the time. He used to go into the dining room,
where there was a big wooden table. He had books and notebooks everywhere,
and he would write. Jim writes and explores Paris alone. He loves to stroll
along the riverbanks of Île de la Cité and in the Marne. He loved this city. He thought it was beautiful and calm
and nobody bothered him. He always had this gaping pocket
with sheets of paper hanging out. Jim is entranced by Paris,
the city of many writers he admires: Charles Baudelaire,
Arthur Rimbaud, and Oscar Wilde. He spends hours in the Place des Vosges,
sitting on a park bench. He scribbles in his notebooks
and composes his last poems. Paris, the City of Light,
where his poem As I Look Back was penned. "As I look back over my life,
I'm struck by postcards," "ruined snapshots,
and faded posters of time I can't recall." He told me one morning
as we walked through the hallways in the hotel on our way to breakfast, "I guess I just hope to be remembered
as a poet when it's all over." "Why does my mind circle around you?" "Why do planets wonder
what it would be like to be you?" Jim, the poet,
and Morrison, the filmmaker. In his bag, he brought two films made by his friend
Frank Lisciandro in Los Angeles. In one of them, Highway, Jim plays the lead role
of a murderous hitchhiker. A story of rage and destruction,
a journey of escape to the big nowhere. One of our plans
was that Jim was going to go to Paris, and he was going to meet with,
as we say in English, Agnès Varda, Jacques Demy,
and other people in the French film world, and he'd show them these two films and hope that perhaps they'd have a way
for us to finish making Highway. Highway remained unfinished, but Jim and Agnès' father
struck up a friendship. In 1970, he'd even shown up in the midst
of the fairytale setting of Peau d'Âne, a world far removed from his own. He wanted to see the shoot. Jacques was already in Chambord, but I took the train with Allan
and Jim from Paris to Orleans. Then we rented a car in Orleans
and drove to the Château de Chambord. He was on the set as a visitor. Nothing special happened. He came out onto the lawn
and I shot one or two scenes. He came because he liked
Jacques Demy's work, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg,
and my films, I think. It was just based on simple friendship
and the curiosity of a film fan. "I'd love to stay." "I'd love to stay." "I'd love to stay." April 1971, Jim has been in France
for just a few weeks and has again succumbed
to the demon booze. He drinks and hangs out in bars
in the Latin Quarter, making chance meetings that help overcome
the boredom and solitude. He just literally picked himself up,
walked over to us, and said, "Hey, are you guys American?" "Mind if I join you?" We said, "Sure, come on, pull up a chair." At first, it wasn't obvious
that it was Jim Morrison. He had become namely, a bearded poet. Jim downs beer after beer, chain-smoking, and invites Philip
and his group to jam with him. They pick a blues track
that Jim has just recorded, but the gig is soon over. Jim basically had to take
a little bit of a break, and we found out
that he had a really hard time singing. I didn't think he would be that sick. I didn't know he had chest problems, which I learned later because he'd been
to the Hôpital Américain in Neuilly for coughing up blood. When Jim was in Paris,
he went to see a doctor. Catherine remembers a telephone call
from Paris that Jim made to the office, he told her he was having
a reoccurrence of his asthma. He had asthma seriously as a child, and then he developed asthma again
as an adult. He really let go to the extent where he was in the danger zone
of killing himself. Jim's doctor advises him to rest. Asthma, combined with liquor and tobacco,
is causing worrying attacks. He leaves Paris for a few weeks
and takes to the road, heading to Spain, then Morocco,
Tangiers, Marrakesh, and Casablanca. Jim and Pam spend days wandering around the souks in Old Medina,
fascinated. "The sounds and smells
were those of Africa," notes Jim's notebook. He's feeling better
and seems to be at peace with himself. On May 3rd, 1971, they returned to Paris. Jim and Pamela move into a hotel
for a while on the rue des Beaux-Arts. When he came here, it was primarily
to find some peace and quiet. He spent more time in his room
than in the bar or the restaurant. It must be sad
that Jim finds an old friend here, Oscar Wilde, who died in the same hotel. A writer, the victim of Puritanism,
an exile like himself. What could Jim have to say to Wilde? That he was condemned to join him
before long, perhaps even very soon? It's written in the station area
of the L' Hotel, and it's dated May 18th, 1971. Jim says, "Dear Frank and Kathy,
sorry not to have written sooner." "It doesn't seem
like I've been here this long." "We've been traveling in Spain." "Granada was the best." "Morocco, southern France, and Corsica." Then he says, "There's an extra room,
so please come stay with us." "How is everything?" "Say hello to everyone
and try to get over here." Signed Jim. Try to get over here, I like that. I think he was alone in Paris. I think he was by himself. I think he searched for friendship
and couldn't find it. In the middle of May, Pamela and Jim
returned to the rue Beautreillis. They lived their own lives
and went out separately. I never saw them together. I didn't feel
as if I was living with a couple. Jim continues his walking tour of Paris,
perhaps content to wander aimlessly. At the Café de Flore,
he comes across a young actress, Zouzou, whom he had met seven years previously. I met him two
or three weeks before he died. I saw him
every afternoon up until the end. Pamela apparently organized everything. She was a great planner. She must have suited him. He lets her have her own way. He gave her money. She'd say, "Give me so much,"
and he'd pull out the money. She'd say,
"I'll get you in an hour and a half." I said, "Okay, she's doing the shopping." When you say Pamela
was doing the shopping, do you mean for drugs? Obviously. Then suddenly, when she came back,
everybody split quickly. That's a sign. I know that sign. Pamela got into heroin, even before they went to Paris. The only thing I can tell you is that sometimes
she'd lock herself in her room, and sometimes I'd be a bit worried. I'd go and knock,
but she'd say it was none of my business. Pamela was seeing a rather odd individual,
Jean de Breteuil, who had been her lover in Los Angeles. He was a well-known figure
in drug circles. He was a bourgeois type with money. There was a whole clique like that. Chic, bourgeois druggies
who dragged everyone along in their wake. They were very generous. They never said she's never taken anything
so we won't offer. Just the opposite. Pamela is a junkie,
but Jim closes his eyes. He too has his drug of choice: alcohol. Jim is also hooked
on the Rock'n'Roll Circus, the hippest swinging 60s nightclub
for rock fans and those who seek artificial paradises. Mick Jagger, Jimi Hendrix,
everybody comes to the Circus. One night, one of the regulars, Gilles,
bumped into Morrison at the club door. He has just been accosted by the bouncers. Gilles drags him into a taxi. He was really in a bad way. I knew he was going to have problems
with the bouncers, so I went up to him. I spoke to him
and he said that he was Jim Morrison. I asked him where he lived, but because of the state he was in,
he couldn't even answer. What state was he in? He was dead drunk. Gilles takes him to a friend's home
in the 17th arrondissement. He literally has to drag Morrison
up to the fifth floor. We saw Gilles come in with this guy,
who could barely stand up. He had this big smile. He said hello,
and then he fell on the bed. He fell on the bed,
but I don't think he said anything. Yes, he said hello
and gave this big smile. I remember that very clearly. Morrison spends the night at Hervé's. The next morning, sober again, Jim invites Hervé and Yvonne to breakfast
at the Alexandre Bar in the rue George V. It's here that he and Hervé,
at the time a rock journalist, get acquainted. A rare moment
immortalized by a few photos. It was fun,
but we'd start drinking before eating and he'd kick off with a Chivas. A bottle of Chivas later,
he wasn't in great shape. Unfortunately, he was an alcoholic
and he was the worst kind of alcoholic, the kind that gets drunk with one drink
and then doesn't stop. However, I don't remember any of us
ever saying "you drink too much". None of us said that, we were too young. We didn't understand that at 27,
you can die from alcoholism. We didn't know that. Hervé sees Jim on several occasions. Their last meeting
takes place on June 11th to see a play by Bob Wilson,
Le Regard du Sourd. Morrison is fascinated
by the play's macabre tableau. I remember Jim in front of the theater. Very effusive,
very enthusiastic, and very inspired. It was strange because one side of him
was still very young and he had all kinds of projects, but there was another side too, where he was all burned out,
at the end of his rope. On June 14th,
Jim called The Doors' drummer, John Densmore. He called me and I was the last band member
to speak to him from Paris. He wanted to know how our last album,
L.A. Woman, was doing, and I told him it was really doing well. He was interested
in making another record. He intended to come back. No doubt. On June 16th, Jim goes into a makeshift studio
with two pickup musicians and stands up to the microphone. He's pretty drunk. This is Morrison's final recording,
exactly 16 days before his death. How about this one? -Ready?
-Listen, I have a favorite. I wrote this myself. Well, I used to know someone fair. She had orange ribbons in her hair. She was such a trip. She was hardly there, but I love her just the same. On June 28th, Alain Ronay, an old friend,
takes Jim and Pamela to Chantilly. They drive together to the small village
of Saint-Leu-d'Esserent. They have lunch at the Auberge de L'Oise. Without realizing it, Alain Ronay takes one of Jim
and Pamela's final photographs. They seem happy. On Friday, July 2nd, 1971, Jim Morrison
spent the day with Alain Ronay. A day that Ronay
prefers not to talk about. The only report
he'd make is in an interview with the Italian magazine, King,
just 20 years after Morrison's death. In it, he describes
the star's last day alive. At about one o'clock, they have
lunch together in the Place des Vosges. Alain finds Jim tense and depressed,
and he coughs constantly. Near the end of the afternoon, they have
a last drink in the Place de la Bastille. Jim is seized by an attack of hiccups. He tries to control it, throwing his head back
and closing his eyes. Alain Ronay is worried. "I felt like I was looking
at a funeral mask," he'd say. Alain leaves Jim on the café terrace
and heads for the metro. As he descends the steps, he turns back
for one last look at his friend. He would never see him again. What happened
during the evening of July 2nd to 3rd, the last night in Jim Morrison's life? The only official witness
is his girlfriend, Pamela Courson. The events of the night,
as described by Pamela, are consigned
to an official police report. It would constitute the official version. At 9 p.m., according to Pamela, Jim left the rue Beautreillis
and went to dinner at a nearby café. At 10 p.m., he came to pick up Pamela and they went to the cinema
to see a Raoul Walsh film, Pursued. At around 1 a.m.,
still according to Pamela, they returned to rue Beautreillis
and listened to music until about 2:30. Close to 3:30,
Pam was woken up by Jim's noisy breathing. She shook him. Jim woke up. Pamela wanted to call a doctor,
but Jim refused. He went into the bathroom
and started running a bath. "When he was in the bath,
my friend called out," "saying that he was nauseous
and he felt sick." "He vomited food, then blood,
and then a third time, clots of blood." "Then he said he felt strange,
but he said, I'm not ill." "Go to bed." "I fell asleep straight away." "I was reassured." At six in the morning, Pamela woke up. Jim was not beside her. She ran into the bathroom
and found his lifeless body. She thought he was fooling,
and she said, "Jim, don't do that." "You're frightening me." "I thought he'd had a heart attack
and was unconscious." "I tried to get him out of the bath,
but I couldn't." Whatever she did more,
she realized Jim was gone. Pamela called her friend
and compatriot, Alain Ronay. He was with Agnès Varda,
who immediately called the fire brigade. Obviously, it's horrific. To see a man you love dead in his bath. It's not fun. It's horrible,
and so she was very shaken up. We went and called the firemen
to see if we could revive him. At 9:21, an emergency call
was patched through the fire brigade on the rue de Sévigné. The reason for the call: someone asphyxiated
at 17 Rue Beautreillis. We didn't even know if it was a man,
a woman, or a child. We only knew the reason
for the call and the address. It was 9:24
when the firemen arrived on the scene. Pamela opened the door. Her dressing gown was still wet. There was some water in the corridor. The emergency team
immediately headed for the bathroom. When we arrived, there was a man. White and well-built. Stretched out in the bathtub. His head was on this side,
tilted backwards. His arm was resting
on the edge of the tub. The water was warm, 30 degrees. It was a bit pinkish. Some blood had flowed
from his right nostril, which means
that he had lost a little blood. It was a bad sign. We took the body
and carried it to the bedroom. The young woman
who was there pointed it out. I had it laid on the floor
where we started to pump on his heart, and quite rapidly we realized
that he was dead, certainly dead. I didn't want to leave him on the floor,
so I had him laid out on the bed. -Did you know how long he'd been dead?
-I don't know. Just after the firemen,
Agnès Varda and Alain Ronay arrived. Agnès Varda caught a glimpse
of Jim's body. Alain Ronay didn't want to look. At the same moment, the telephone rang. It was Alain Ronay who answered. I remember being surprised
that he picked up. We talked a little
and I asked if Jim or Pamela was there. No, they've gone out. Her voice was strange
and her behavior was strange. I remember being really struck by that. At 9:45, Inspector Jacques Manchez
showed up and asked a few questions. He would later take Pamela's statement. At 6 p.m., a doctor arrived
and examined Jim in just a few minutes. For Max Vassille,
the body showed no suspicious signs of trauma or lesions. In his report,
he noted Jim had coronary problems, perhaps aggravated by alcohol abuse
and a change in the outside temperature followed by a bath
could've caused a myocardial infarction. His conclusion
was death from a heart attack. Natural causes. He checked if there were needle marks
in the arms and elsewhere, and there was absolutely no sign of that. That's why there was no autopsy
or whatever. There was no doubt concerning the death. It was a heart attack. He thought he was drinking a lot
and was about 50 pounds overweight, but that kind of thing can happen. The death certificate was delivered. Time of death was given at 5 a.m. It was declared in the name
Douglas Morrison, not James Douglas Morrison,
with the aim of being discreet. I did something
I'm sure Jim would've wanted because it was in the spirit
of his life in Paris. In other words, I held back the news. Yet, whereas no one was supposed to know, the news reached The Doors manager,
Bill Siddons, in Los Angeles. The phone rang
and my wife bolted upright in bed and said, "Jim is dead!" I said what? I picked up the phone
and it was Clive Selwood, my label manager in the UK, calling to ask me
whether I had heard the reports. He'd been called
by three different journalists in France asking if it was true,
and I said I hope not, but I don't know. I got up and called the apartment,
waited half an hour, and called again. When I finally got through… I think I got through at about 12
and had a conversation with Pamela. She was defensive,
denying it, and then I got her to… She started to cry a little bit
and admit that it had happened. She said, I don't want any interference. I just told her
that I'm only here to help, not interfere. I won't make you do anything
that you don't want to do. In agreement with Pamela,
the group's manager decided to keep quiet. He informed only The Doors
and a few close friends. Our manager, Bill Siddons, came in and said he got a phone call
that Jim had died. I sat down and Robbie and I sort of… It felt like, is it true? It was a horrible moment for us. It just came out of the blue. It wasn't that he was sick,
in the hospital, or had an accident. It was just that he was dead. One day he was alive and the next
he was dead, as far as we knew. Bill Siddons arrived in Paris on July 6th,
still not knowing what really happened. He spent the night at Rue Beautreillis,
close to Jim's coffin. I didn't study the casket in great detail and try to figure out
whether there was any glue in there, but it didn't look
optional to me to open it. I vaguely remember thinking about it
and thinking it's too much. Again, I didn't have
the businessman's mindset that I have to see the body
to verify that he's dead because there was not a doubt in my mind
that he was dead. It's because Bill
didn't look in the casket and see Jim that all these rumors flew. I remember Ray saying
that maybe he's not dead. I have to admit, if there was anyone as crazy as Jim, he could've faked his own death. On July 6th, Morrison's death
had still not been officially announced. The American Embassy had been informed
and also decided to keep a low profile. Behind the scenes, Agnès Varda and Alain Ronay
were dealing with funeral arrangements. He had said once
that he'd like to be in the country. We looked for a place
in a country cemetery, but it was impossible
because you had to be born in the village. It was too complicated. We went to Père Lachaise,
which has room for foreigners. We did everything we could so that the news,
or the official announcement, wouldn't get out until he was buried. They wanted to avoid the same media frenzy
about Morrison's death as there had been
with Hendrix's death the previous year. On July 7th, at 9 a.m.,
Jim Morrison entered his other kingdom, joining the poets and writers he loved: Apollinaire,
La Fontaine, Proust, and Oscar Wilde. The tiny procession stopped
in the sixth cemetery division. Only five people attended the burial. Agnès Varda, Alain Ronay, Robin,
Jim's secretary, Pamela, and Bill Siddons. There was no priest and no tomb. The burial took just eight minutes. I haven't done this. I haven't talked to anybody
about this kind of stuff. About what the experience was like
at the burial. I remember pulling the casket
out of the black French station wagon, whatever kind of hearse it was. I remember lowering the casket,
but I don't remember the speech. I just remember it being pretty surreal,
short, and to the point. I just thought,
"I can't believe this is happening." Pam whispered a few verses
Jim had written. "Now night arrives
with her purple legion." "Retire now to your tents
and to your dreams." "Tomorrow we enter the town of my birth." "I want to be ready." On July 9th, six days after Jim's death, Bill Siddons publicly announced the news
in Los Angeles. The press published the story
the next day. Officially, Jim Morrison
died of a heart attack. I saw the death certificate. It's not a very detailed description
of how he died because, when we die, I think all of us,
our hearts stop beating. It's a general way of saying you're dead. I had a lot of questions
about how Jim died, and I still have a lot of questions
about how Jim died. If I'd been 30 at the time,
as opposed to 22 or whatever I was, I might've said,
"Pamela, I need the whole story." I have to know the truth
and tried to force the details out of her. I didn't want to know. To know what? That Morrison perhaps did not die
at home in his bath from a heart attack? Why does the law of silence
still perpetuate the same version? What really happened
on the nights of July 2nd and 3rd? One disturbing fact is that around 6 a.m., the time when Pamela Courson claims
to have found Jim's body at the Rue Beautreillis apartment, a DJ made a strange announcement
at a club called La Bulle. There's a bubble here
because it's called The Bubble. There's a door over there.
Two guys walk in. Young guys like us. I don't remember their names. They weren't friends. Just people I knew. I was playing records,
and one of them said to me, "Someone just told us
that Jim Morrison is dead." I was stunned,
and my first instinct wasn't to ask him, how do you know that? Where, how? Questions like that. I wasn't a journalist. I just picked up my mic
and made the announcement. The news was now out,
although no one was supposed to know. The next morning, on Sunday, July 4th, a journalist present at La Bulle
even announced it on Radio Luxembourg. Yes, rumors were circulating
even before it was in the press. Who were the guys who announced
that Morrison was dead? The two guys were people I knew. I know they were dealers. Do you think
they could've sold drugs to Morrison Could they have? Who knows? Curiously, on the very day of Jim's death,
July 3rd, a wind of panic seems to blow
through the Paris dope scene. At about four in the morning, a guy I knew well who was a dealer
came up to me and said, "Do you know Morrison is dead?" He says, "I'm really screwed up
because I sold him something." "I sold something to his chick,
and it pisses me off." "I hope it wasn't my stuff
that killed him." I told him
that this kind of thing can happen. Don't feel guilty. He was drinking like a fish,
and maybe he was mixing. It might not have been your stuff. How can you be sure
that you're responsible for his death? Zouzou's confidant
is not the only dealer to panic. The enigmatic Count Jean de Breteuil,
heroin addict and Pamela's drug buddy, also seems to be afraid of something. He made himself scarce. He realized that Paris
was pretty heavy at that time. I'm absolutely certain
that he went to Morocco and that he stayed there. Indeed, as of July 4th, Jean de Breteuil
headed for a family home in Marrakesh along with his girlfriend
Marianne Faithfull. He would make
some strange confessions to his friends. They looked very distraught. They began to tell me and my wife
that they'd just come from Paris, where they had found Jim Morrison dead in the bathtub
in his apartment in the Marais. In the middle of the night,
he said he got a frantic call from Pam saying Jim is in the bathroom,
the door is locked, he's not responding,
I'm very afraid, help me. Morrison was turning blue, was stiff as a board,
and was obviously dead. There was nothing they could do. That freaked them out even more. This version is in complete contradiction
to Pamela's statement. She says nothing
about having seen Jean de Breteuil or Marianne Faithfull
in the Rue Beautreillis. How could she benefit from lying? Did she want to protect herself and Jean de Breteuil
from an investigation? I think the Count was terrified of staying
in Paris because he was a drug addict. They would've wanted
to know more about him, and they would've liked to find out
where the drugs came from that killed Jim Morrison. Of course,
he said nothing to us about that. Jean de Breteuil died one year
after Morrison from an overdose, taking the secret with him. As for Marianne Faithfull, she has constantly refused
to say a word about these events. If she says she wasn't there, then she was lying through her teeth
the whole time we were in Marrakesh because we talked about it again
at the house a few days later, and they told the same story
the same way to me and my wife. Morrison was an alcoholic and ill. There's no doubt about that. On the nights of July 2nd and 3rd,
did he also start using hard drugs, namely heroin? In the article
that appeared in King Magazine, Alain Ronay tells
how Pamela admitted to him at the time that she and Jim sniffed drugs together
that very night. Morrison had apparently started using
before the day of his death. Pamela was messing around.
He criticized her for it. However, I'm sure he dabbled. Jim Morrison
died of an explosive cocktail: fragile health, alcohol, and dope. Did he really die in his bath
at the Rue Beautreillis apartment, as the official version claims? Pamela Courson affirms
that they spent the night there. This is probably not the case. He was seen at the Rock'n'Roll Circus,
one of his favorite haunts. I was at the foot of the stairs,
almost at the bar. Then Jim arrived
and he was in no better shape. No better or worse than usual. He just showed up normally, like a guy who'd already had two
or three drinks, and we chatted very briefly. "How are you doing?"
"Do you want to drink?" "Yes, later." He went to sit down. He arrived alone,
but was looking for some friends. Around three o'clock,
I didn't see him again. Shortly afterwards,
a waiter called Sam Bernett. Someone had been found unconscious
in the toilets of the Alcazar. At that time, the Alcazar had an entrance
on the Rue Mazarine and the door to the Rock'n'Roll Circus
was on the Rue de Seine, but the two clubs
were connected by a long corridor. At one point,
someone came to get me at the bar because someone
locked himself in the toilet and no one could open the door,
so I went along. I was told
that a guy there was unconscious and that his friends had taken him out
via the street door on the Alcazar side, which is the Rue Mazarine. They told me the guy
was really wasted to the eyeballs, and his friends had taken him away,
so I didn't see who it was. I don't know who it was. There was a big question mark
about who was behind that toilet door. The question is perhaps
not so unanswerable, for Jim Morrison was definitely
at the Rock'n'Roll Circus that night, which totally
contradicts Pamela's statement. Jim's presence there on the night he died
is confirmed by further testimony. That of a veritable night owl, a regular customer
at the Rock'n'Roll Circus. This woman has until now
kept silent about the drama she claims to have witnessed. I come out of the toilets
and I see the cubicle on the right, and I see this person
who at first had a blackout. Someone said,
"There's Morrison and he's sick." "He's overdosing!" It's true, I saw Morrison collapsing. He was in a really bad way
and he just collapsed. How can you be sure
he died from an overdose? It's because I knew the person
who sold it to him. -They sold to him directly?
-Yes, directly. From what I understand,
putting the pieces together, I think it was de Breteuil
or someone in his entourage who had a contact in Marseille
to get good-quality heroin. What happened
was that the evening the dope arrived, for one reason or another,
the others weren't there. Jim was the first to arrive
at the Rock'n'Roll Circus. This guy arrives, sees Jim,
and says, "I've got what Pam ordered," and he takes the package. He took the package and in all likelihood, he tested the heroin ordered by Pamela
and de Breteuil. Heroin that was particularly potent. It was 90% pure, whereas usually, from what I've heard
in the papers and around, it's maybe 20 or 30%. Imagine someone
coming across a bomb like that. On top of that, doing a load of alcohol
because Morrison drank a lot. It must've been like a bomb in his system. It must've blown his head off. That night, Nicole saw Jim Morrison
when he was taken ill and when his friends
discreetly removed him from the nightclub. It was from here, in my view,
because I saw that Morrison left, or he was taken out
because I believe he was already dead. What did you see exactly? I saw several people around someone
who was completely inert, holding him up, but he was more lying down
than standing up. I saw a woman and some men around him. People in dark clothes, I remember. They were well-dressed compared to us,
who were dressed like hippies. Who could the people
transporting Jim have been? de Breteuil, Pamela,
and other junkie friends? Why, on returning to the Rue Beautreillis, did they give him a bath
if he was in such a state? That business with the bath
has always surprised me. Why was he in a bathtub? Until I discovered later
a classic technique with junkies. When someone overdoses, they put him in a cold bath
to induce a reaction. The most important thing
when someone has an overdose is to stop them from falling asleep. I don't know what the water temperature
was when the cops arrived, but it wasn't important. -The water was warm.
-Yes, but it's easy to add hot water. After Jim's death, the Rock'n'Roll Circus
was the focus of all manner of rumors. Dealers were interrogated by the police, but officially,
no one was looking into Morrison's death. A lot of people
were scared of the fallout. Of the consequences that might result,
like the club being closed down or raids on the customers
who might've frequented the place, whether they were well-known or not. -The owner, Sam Bernett, knew about this?
-Of course. Bernett was discreet afterwards
because he didn't want the cops around. He'd already had problems
at the Rock'n'Roll Circus before because there was smack going around
and the drug squad knew about it. He had every reason
for being as discreet as possible. Was there a blackout
over Morrison's death? Obviously. It was clear that, at the time,
it was easy to hush things up. Particularly when the main players
in the affair remain silent or disappear, like the principal witness, Pamela. Her version of the facts
would be unchanged right up to her death
in 1974 from an overdose. She'd sit up at night
and watch ships come in on the ocean and have visions that he was coming back. It really wasn't a life. It was an existence. She couldn't focus on anything. She couldn't sleep at night. As I told you, she just felt
that if only she hadn't fallen asleep, maybe something
could have been done to save him, but I don't think so. Who could've saved Morrison
from his descent into hell? Probably no one. Today, his myth is still very much alive. From around the world, fans and admirers
flock to pay homage at his gravesite. Twenty years after his death, Jim Morrison's parents had an inscription
put on his tombstone in Greek. James Douglas Morrison,
faithful to his demons.
