In the wake of the success of movies such as Ray (2004) and Walk the Line (2005), you can tell that the studios are clamoring for another American musician bio-pic to put out there. They don’t necessarily require big budgets, they have a built-in audience, they seem to be shoe-ins for Oscar nods (warranted or not), and the basic story is already there. Not to mention the fact that these musicians’ lives conveniently follow a simple time-tested narrative arc of rags to love to riches to drugs to family disenfranchisement to reconciliation to comeback. They are straight-forward, heart-warming, celebratory movies dedicated to the legends of modern music icons. Unfortunately it creates a fine line between legend and cliché.
Yes, it is in the wake of these movies that Todd Haynes offers us I’m Not There, a movie with no less then seven glimpses of “Dylan” and also seven glimpses of the kinds of traditional bio-pics Haynes could have made. Dylan is certainly an icon with a status worthy of a bio-pic (to supplement all of the documentary films covering his career) and his life seems to fit nicely with the musician bio-pic template: his struggles to become famous, his struggles with fame once achieved, his struggles with drugs, his struggles with religion, his struggles with identity, his struggles with love, etc. With every nod towards the bio-pic template, however, there is a direct refusal of it. Not unlike Dylan himself, who has turned on his base a number of times (i.e. going electric, going country, going Christian, etc.).
Dylan is an anomaly. I can’t think of any other artist with such difficult if not incomprehensible works that has been so unilaterally embraced across the board, by intellectuals and jocks, poets and pot heads. It’s seemingly impossible to try to interpret Dylan songs without seeming an asshole. Then again, that doesn’t really stop anyone, either. Even Dylan thinks his interpreters are full of it (something nicely carried through in the movie’s humor as well). Haynes seeks a similar aura: he gives allusions of things we can relate to, emotions and scenes that we can understand, but they are only allusions, fragmented and indifferent to time, location, style, and form. To Haynes’ credit, he doesn’t try to discover the real Dylan; to his credit, the interpretation’s not there.
I remember one night when I was probably fourteen or so, my older brother had an argument with my mother. It was the climax of teenage rebellion and parental restriction, one of the few harder times in our family. I remember sitting in my room. I could hear them arguing through the wall and I was scared or annoyed at the noise, or possibly some amalgamation of the two. I remember brushing my teeth as a self-distraction (actually, I wrote a poem about it at the time, a haiku). The next day, when I walked into my brother’s room, I saw that he had taped the lyrics to It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) on his wall. While I didn’t totally understand, I got that it was his way of dealing. They actually are still up on the wall. I’ve never asked him about it.
My freshman roommate in college and I didn’t get along. Luckily we each had our own rooms, but one of the points of contention was the fact that he played three CDs on repeat all day. One album was Bob Marley, the second was Neil Young, and the third Bob Dylan. Yes, I bore Bob, Bob, and Neil blasting through the all-too-thin-but-supposedly-fireproof wall for two full semesters. And as much I like Dylan and Young (not so much Marley), it was absolutely awful. And yet, that’s part of Dylan too.
Why these two anecdotes from my brother and my roommate? Well, for me, Dylan has never quite been there in front of me (even when I saw him play at MSG when I was 16). He has always been heard from behind a wall, behind a veil, behind the wizard’s curtain. A quasi-presence that doesn’t allow for actual questioning or engagement, but fascinating all the same. You can keep coming back to it.
In the case of I’m Not There, Haynes presents cinematic beauty, just enough lyric-references to amuse that guy in the audience, and a confused vision. And that’s great. Before any value judgments on the movie, the one thing I’ve been hearing from my friends has been: “I’d like to see it again.” That seals the deal right there. It won’t necessarily make anything clearer, but there it is.
~Josh
Addendum: If you haven't heard, check out Dylan laying down a rhyme on this Kurtis Blow track.
Yes, it is in the wake of these movies that Todd Haynes offers us I’m Not There, a movie with no less then seven glimpses of “Dylan” and also seven glimpses of the kinds of traditional bio-pics Haynes could have made. Dylan is certainly an icon with a status worthy of a bio-pic (to supplement all of the documentary films covering his career) and his life seems to fit nicely with the musician bio-pic template: his struggles to become famous, his struggles with fame once achieved, his struggles with drugs, his struggles with religion, his struggles with identity, his struggles with love, etc. With every nod towards the bio-pic template, however, there is a direct refusal of it. Not unlike Dylan himself, who has turned on his base a number of times (i.e. going electric, going country, going Christian, etc.).
Dylan is an anomaly. I can’t think of any other artist with such difficult if not incomprehensible works that has been so unilaterally embraced across the board, by intellectuals and jocks, poets and pot heads. It’s seemingly impossible to try to interpret Dylan songs without seeming an asshole. Then again, that doesn’t really stop anyone, either. Even Dylan thinks his interpreters are full of it (something nicely carried through in the movie’s humor as well). Haynes seeks a similar aura: he gives allusions of things we can relate to, emotions and scenes that we can understand, but they are only allusions, fragmented and indifferent to time, location, style, and form. To Haynes’ credit, he doesn’t try to discover the real Dylan; to his credit, the interpretation’s not there.
I remember one night when I was probably fourteen or so, my older brother had an argument with my mother. It was the climax of teenage rebellion and parental restriction, one of the few harder times in our family. I remember sitting in my room. I could hear them arguing through the wall and I was scared or annoyed at the noise, or possibly some amalgamation of the two. I remember brushing my teeth as a self-distraction (actually, I wrote a poem about it at the time, a haiku). The next day, when I walked into my brother’s room, I saw that he had taped the lyrics to It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) on his wall. While I didn’t totally understand, I got that it was his way of dealing. They actually are still up on the wall. I’ve never asked him about it.
My freshman roommate in college and I didn’t get along. Luckily we each had our own rooms, but one of the points of contention was the fact that he played three CDs on repeat all day. One album was Bob Marley, the second was Neil Young, and the third Bob Dylan. Yes, I bore Bob, Bob, and Neil blasting through the all-too-thin-but-supposedly-fireproof wall for two full semesters. And as much I like Dylan and Young (not so much Marley), it was absolutely awful. And yet, that’s part of Dylan too.
Why these two anecdotes from my brother and my roommate? Well, for me, Dylan has never quite been there in front of me (even when I saw him play at MSG when I was 16). He has always been heard from behind a wall, behind a veil, behind the wizard’s curtain. A quasi-presence that doesn’t allow for actual questioning or engagement, but fascinating all the same. You can keep coming back to it.
In the case of I’m Not There, Haynes presents cinematic beauty, just enough lyric-references to amuse that guy in the audience, and a confused vision. And that’s great. Before any value judgments on the movie, the one thing I’ve been hearing from my friends has been: “I’d like to see it again.” That seals the deal right there. It won’t necessarily make anything clearer, but there it is.
~Josh
Addendum: If you haven't heard, check out Dylan laying down a rhyme on this Kurtis Blow track.
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