As far as movies about real-life musicians go (that is, at least semi-narrative films, not concert movies), I can’t say that there are many good ones. Sure, everyone loves Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night (1964), but the only real reason I cherish it is because of its stylish cinematography and the fact that the Beatles are mildly funny, not because I consider it a landmark or a great film. Bob Rafelson’s Head (1968) is even more mired in ‘60s culture than Lester’s film, but it doesn’t particularly have anything to do with the Monkees or their importance (for the record: they’re not important), it’s just a series of increasingly surreal sketches. Rafelson, it would seem, was only preparing himself for his masterpiece, 1970’s Five Easy Pieces. Now, more than forty years after Robert Zimmerman broke into the folk scene—before leaving it all behind in order to pursue his own personal mythmaking—comes Todd Hayne’s I’m Not There, a brilliant film on all counts and one that I have been obsessed with ever since I saw it last December.
Since that first revelatory viewing, I have probably seen I’m Not There close to ten times. Sometimes I just watch the first hour, sometimes the latter part, depending on what sort of mood I’m in. The fact that it’s not strictly a narrative film, but instead a series of engaging vignettes that somehow add up to more than the sum of its parts, make it a perfect film to watch at home, not unlike Chris Marker’s Sans soleil (1983) and Jean-Luc Godard’s Histoire(s) du cinema (1998), both films which share a lot in common with Hayne’s portrait of an artist as a shifting personality, most notably a Brechtian essay-like structure.
The film works wonderfully as a tribute to Dylan, so it probably helps that I’m a big fan of the man’s music. (His Blonde on Blonde [1966] may be my favorite album of all time). However, Haynes is not only exploring one particular person’s career, he’s more interested in how he can use Dylan’s fascinating life to tell us something about the historical importance of the ‘60s. I’m Not There opens with a black-and-white shot in which letters slowly appear on the screen, calling to mind Godard’s Band of Outsiders (1964). Afterwards, we hear a series of gunshots while first getting a look at all the characters, a reference to another Godard film, 1966’s Masculin Feminin, which will also be quoted later during the Heath Ledger/Charlotte Gainsbourg sequences. The first Dylan we spend time with is Marcus Carl Franklin’s Woody Guthrie, a young black troubadour riding the rails with hobos. It’s 1959 but he’s still writing about the Dust Bowl. The highlight of these opening scenes is a rendition of “Tombstone Blues” performed by Franklin and Richie Havens, one of the first of many transcendent moments the film will provide. Next up is Christian Bale’s Jack Rollins, the Dylan of “The Times They’re A-Changin’” and “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Formatted like a documentary in the vein of Martin Scorsese’s No Direction Home (2004) and featuring a hilarious Julianne Moore as a Joan Baez-like folk singer, this section is considered by many critics to be the weakest in the film. But while it certainly doesn’t match the film’s most scintillating moments, it has its own lovely integrity and is never boring to watch.
In between different scenes in I’m Not There we get to hear a couple of things from Ben Whishaw’s poet-on-trial, a young man who introduces himself as Arthur Rimbaud. As he is being interviewed by police officers or authorities of some kind, he drops some of the film’s best lines. Some of my favorites are “I’m not fatalistic. I’m a farmer. You ever heard of a fatalistic farmer?” and “I accept chaos. I’m not so sure it accepts me.”
I'm Not There (2007) was Heath Ledger's last film released before his untimely death in January 2008.
The next Dylan is Heath Ledger’s Robbie Clark, an actor who became famous for playing Christian Bale’s folk singer in a film titled A Grain of Sand. A bit confusing, I know, but stay with me. Watching these sequences after Ledger’s untimely death, it’s clearer than ever what a marvelous actor he was. His scenes with Charlotte Gainsbourg (who plays his wife, a painter named Claire) are my favorite of the film. However, if you’ve read any review of I’m Not There, then you know that everyone’s preferred Dylan is Cate Blanchett’s Jude Quinn, and not without reason. She gives the most thrilling performance, to be sure, but I have my own personal reasons for loving the Ledger/Gainsbourg sequences so much, namely the fact that I thought the story about a disintegrating marriage set against the backdrop of the Vietnam War was genuinely interesting, especially as carried out by a director as smart as Haynes. A moment where Gainsbourg stands watching Nixon on TV announcing the end of the Vietnam War as “Visions of Johanna” plays brings me to tears every time.
Blanchett’s scenes are at the center of the film. She swaggers into I’m Not There playing “Maggie’s Farm” at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, thereby alienating most of her early supporters (“I think he’s evil,” one of them says). Jude Quinn heads to England, where he will be even more aggressively leaned on to explain why he left the folk scene and what his lyrics “mean.” Blanchett, a brilliant actress who inhabits every role she plays, looks more like Dylan circa 1965 than even Dylan himself. This part also features remarkable performances from Michelle Williams as an Edie Sedgwick-like debutante and Bruce Greenwood as a BBC journalist—the Mr. Jones of “Ballad of a Thin Man"—that question’s Quinn’s every move.
If many critics think Bale’s sequences are the worst in the film, they also agree that Richard Gere’s Billy the Kid segment is the most confusing. I certainly didn’t think so. Dylan, as you may know, starred in Sam Peckinpah’s 1973 western Pat Garret and Billy the Kid, although he didn’t actually play the Kid (Kris Kristofferson, I’m Not There’s narrator, did). But even disregarding any interest the viewer may or may not have in western mythology, these scenes’ emotional light shines through, most notably during a heartbreaking funeral scene set to “Goin’ to Acapulco” as performed by Jim James.
Perhaps Hayne’s most important decision in the making of the film was the use of so many different and distinct visual styles. The Heath Ledger scenes are modeled after both ‘60s Godard and ‘70s Cassavetes; think Pierrot le fou (1965) meets A Woman Under the Influence (1974). The Billy the Kid segment not only borrows from Peckinpah and other genre directors, but also from Federico Fellini, whose 8 ½ (1963) is likewise interested in the troubles an artist faces against an increasingly annoyed audience—that film is about a director unsure of what movie he’s going to make next. The Blanchett, swingin’ London part is filmed as cinéma-vérité in the style of D.A. Pennebaker’s 1967 documentary about Dylan, Don’t Look Back.
I’m Not There is a film of such rich textures and emotional weight that it doesn’t matter if you don’t know the first thing about Dylan. At its core, the film is a story about figuring out who you are and the necessity to reinvent oneself. That it’s set to some of my favorite music of all time was only an added bonus. See it then see it again. This is a film to fall in love with.
Natalie Portman and Norah Jones in Wong Kar-wai's latest film, My Blueberry Nights (2007).
When I first heard that Wong Kar-wai was making a film with Jude Law and Natalie Portman—yeah, Norah Jones is in it, too, but I didn’t really care about that—sometime in the weeks preceding Cannes 2007, I can’t say that I wasn’t intrigued. Both actors are known for their marvelous screen presence, so I knew that Wong wouldn’t let me down. At the very least their project would be an artfully luscious, if a tad perplexing movie like 2046 (2004). Now, having just finished watching My Blueberry Nights I can say that, despite the lukewarm reception it has gotten from most critics, it certainly lived up to most of my expectations. Not only that, but the film is even more beautiful than I could have imagined.
The best way to enter My Blueberry Nights is to, as I did, expect to be won over by the little pleasures, such as the way Wong perfectly frames every shot and holds it just long enough to savor it before going on to the next lovely image. Once you adjust your mindset to consider that those details that make the film such a delight to watch are the main attraction, you’ll be able to enjoy the whole package, which in addition to an endless array of striking compositions coupled with brilliant sound design, also includes a lovely and moody narrative about heartbreak and longing.
Elizabeth, Norah Jones’s character, walks into the film as a young woman looking for her lover in New York. She calls a diner, where the owner, a guy named Jeremy (Jude Law), tells her he hasn’t seen him. Eventually she makes it to the diner, again looking for the unseen man, but this time she finds herself babbling on and on about this and that to Jeremy. Their relationship soon turns into a series of late-night conversations over blueberry pie and ice cream
Soon thereafter, Elizabeth is in Memphis working in a diner during the day and a bar by night; she sends Jeremy postcards telling him she’s saving up to buy a car. He tries to write back, but apparently can’t find the name or address of the place where she works. Meanwhile, Elizabeth meets a guy named Arnie (David Strathaim), an alcoholic cop that has tried quitting many times and carries the white chips to prove it. His wife, Sue Lynne (Rachel Weisz), has left him, but he’s not willing to accept that. Strathaim plays Arnie with such affection and sympathy that his is the film’s most memorable and heartbreaking performance.
Elizabeth decides to continue her Kerouac trip across America, her next stop being a casino near Las Vegas, where she meets a poker player named Leslie (Natalie Portman with a hideous dyed blonde hairdo). Still saving up to buy her car, Elizabeth decides to give the $2,200 she’s saved up so far to Leslie so she can keep playing. If she wins, she’ll give Elizabeth a third of the profits. If she loses, Elizabeth gets Leslie’s convertible.
After making her way across thousands of miles, Elizabeth returns to New York, where Jeremy still keeps a blueberry pie just in case she walks in one day. She does, they talk for a while, and they share the most beautifully cinematic kiss since Anna Karina and Jean-Paul Belmondo stuck their heads out of their respective convertibles for a peck in Pierrot le fou (1965).
Sure, My Blueberry Nights may not have the thematic weight of Wong’s best work, but I doubt a more gorgeous film will come around this year.