Movie Review: The Other Side of the Mirror
23/01/08 00:07 Filed in: Movies
In his fanciful bio-pic
"I'm Not There," director Todd Haynes has six actors
portray six facets of the Bob Dylan persona. At least
three of those facets are portrayed by Bob Dylan
himself in "The Other Side of the Mirror: Bob Dylan at
the Newport Folk Festival. Directed by — or perhaps a
better description would be "recorded by" — Murray
Lerner, the film presents three years of Dylan
performances at the festival, culminating with his
infamous act of going electric in 1965.
With the benefit of hindsight, this classic bit of rock history might be puzzling: using an electric guitar makes Dylan some kind of traitor? Yes. Yes it does; at least to the die-hard fans at Newport. This film will help you understand why. By the time Dylan takes the stage with his electric band, we can understand the audience’s sense of betrayal, but also can see why the shift was inevitable.
The most impressive aspect of Lerner's film is that he tells the story with virtually no commentary at all; the film is comprised almost entirely of Dylan singing his songs and the audience responding to those songs; the drama is created by that interplay between artist and audience.
The film begins in 1963, Dylan the crown prince of folk, but a regular guy, too, all work shirts and bashful smiles. His repertoire is beautiful, but fairly standard folk fare. Dylan projects a "just happy to be here" attitude.
By 1964, Dylan's ascendancy to the throne is unquestioned. He has a charismatic stage presence, and his songwriting has taken a turn toward the more complex stream of consciousness lyrics that would become his trademark. The crowds adore him. He is the folk savior, the rising artist with his finger on the pulse of America, the chosen one destined to lead them to some folk promised land. The interplay is unspoken and subtle, but the message is clear: Bob Dylan ain't going nowhere, if the folk scene has their way.
In 1965, Dylan appears in rock star mode, dressed in black; he still seems to enjoy singing for the crowd, but there is a difference to him now. One song he sings (it opens the movie) almost borders on self-parody. Between workshops, he does a sound check with his electric band, and you can practically feel that something's up; the times, they are a-changin' for sure, and Lerner's camera captures it all.
That evening, Dylan takes the stage to lukewarm applause and sings "Maggie's Farm"; he just ain't going to work there no more —
Well I try my best / To be just like I am, but everybody wants you to be just like them/ They sing while you slave and I just get bored. / I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.
It's not exactly the message the crowd wants to hear, and they definitely are not up for Dylan's first public performance of "Like a Rolling Stone." After being booed (but also getting some cheers; to be fair, some people were cheering) Dylan returns to the stage with his trusty acoustic guitar. Instead of berating his audience, he says, "Anyone have an E harmonica?" The audience rains the stage with harmonicas; he picks one up and proceeds to sing "Tambourine Man," probably for about the one-millionth time. If I'd been booed like that, I don't think I would have been able to return to the stage.
Dylan's singing style has been lampooned many times. I used to think of myself as being "not much of a Dylan fan." But then, when I thought of a list of favorite songs, I realized that several of them were penned by Bob Dylan. Since then, I've been trying to give the original songs a more careful listen. The music throughout the film is excellent. The live performances, in my opinion, equal or exceed some of the versions he laid down in the studio at the time. For that reason alone, if you are a Dylan fan at all, "The Other Side of the Mirror" is a must see. For others, this film is a great introduction to an artist in transit, and a great reminder of the ways that celebrityhood can be a lucky break, but it can also, sometimes, be the worst kind of luck.
With the benefit of hindsight, this classic bit of rock history might be puzzling: using an electric guitar makes Dylan some kind of traitor? Yes. Yes it does; at least to the die-hard fans at Newport. This film will help you understand why. By the time Dylan takes the stage with his electric band, we can understand the audience’s sense of betrayal, but also can see why the shift was inevitable.
The most impressive aspect of Lerner's film is that he tells the story with virtually no commentary at all; the film is comprised almost entirely of Dylan singing his songs and the audience responding to those songs; the drama is created by that interplay between artist and audience.
The film begins in 1963, Dylan the crown prince of folk, but a regular guy, too, all work shirts and bashful smiles. His repertoire is beautiful, but fairly standard folk fare. Dylan projects a "just happy to be here" attitude.
By 1964, Dylan's ascendancy to the throne is unquestioned. He has a charismatic stage presence, and his songwriting has taken a turn toward the more complex stream of consciousness lyrics that would become his trademark. The crowds adore him. He is the folk savior, the rising artist with his finger on the pulse of America, the chosen one destined to lead them to some folk promised land. The interplay is unspoken and subtle, but the message is clear: Bob Dylan ain't going nowhere, if the folk scene has their way.
In 1965, Dylan appears in rock star mode, dressed in black; he still seems to enjoy singing for the crowd, but there is a difference to him now. One song he sings (it opens the movie) almost borders on self-parody. Between workshops, he does a sound check with his electric band, and you can practically feel that something's up; the times, they are a-changin' for sure, and Lerner's camera captures it all.
That evening, Dylan takes the stage to lukewarm applause and sings "Maggie's Farm"; he just ain't going to work there no more —
Well I try my best / To be just like I am, but everybody wants you to be just like them/ They sing while you slave and I just get bored. / I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.
It's not exactly the message the crowd wants to hear, and they definitely are not up for Dylan's first public performance of "Like a Rolling Stone." After being booed (but also getting some cheers; to be fair, some people were cheering) Dylan returns to the stage with his trusty acoustic guitar. Instead of berating his audience, he says, "Anyone have an E harmonica?" The audience rains the stage with harmonicas; he picks one up and proceeds to sing "Tambourine Man," probably for about the one-millionth time. If I'd been booed like that, I don't think I would have been able to return to the stage.
Dylan's singing style has been lampooned many times. I used to think of myself as being "not much of a Dylan fan." But then, when I thought of a list of favorite songs, I realized that several of them were penned by Bob Dylan. Since then, I've been trying to give the original songs a more careful listen. The music throughout the film is excellent. The live performances, in my opinion, equal or exceed some of the versions he laid down in the studio at the time. For that reason alone, if you are a Dylan fan at all, "The Other Side of the Mirror" is a must see. For others, this film is a great introduction to an artist in transit, and a great reminder of the ways that celebrityhood can be a lucky break, but it can also, sometimes, be the worst kind of luck.
Movie Review: 'Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris
02/01/08 01:36 Filed in: Movies
Tis Autumn: The Search For Jackie Paris
— Read that title and you are no doubt saying, "The
search for Jackie who now? Jackie Paris? The city?
Excuse me, but... huh?"
You're excused. The words I so helpfully attributed to you just now are pretty much the same words that ran through filmmaker Raymond De Filitta's head a few years ago. Driving down the highway, grooving to some jazz on the radio, he was caught off-guard when the band's singer inserted a line or two of spoken patter: "I'm Jackie Paris, and I have the blues bad." De Felitta took it as an audio message in a bottle, floating across decades to reach his ears; an obsession was born — who was, or is, Jackie Paris?
By the end of the film, you may not be a huge Jackie Paris fan, but you will probably be glad that De Felitta sought to ask the question. Paris, though never a big star, had definite talent. Some of the songs included in the film are guaranteed to have you seeking out at least one of his albums; if you don’t at least want to go download “Skylark” off of iTunes, then I’d say there’s something wrong with you. Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, the man could hold his own against any of the great singers to come out of the jazz era. It's not like he was laboring in obscurity, either. He was a favorite singer of many top jazz artists, including Charlie Parker, Charlie Mingus and others. Yet he never really managed to rise to more than a footnote in the big picture of jazz lore; all of which poses the question: what is the quality that moves some into stardom while others, perhaps equally or even more talented, languish?
De Felitta's film deals with this question as much as it does with the search for Jackie Paris, which is rather anti-climactic. Although some jazz encyclopedias listed Paris as having joined the choir invisible, De Felitta soon finds Paris to be very much alive, in New York City where he is about to embark, in his 70s, on his umpteenth bid for fame and fortune. In interviews with Paris, his friends, and other jazz musicians and historians, De Felitta's film simultaneously unravels the mystery of Paris' life and also the mystery of that fickle and illusive fata morgana called fame.
The film introduces Paris' undeniable talent to a new generation, and also reveals the special blend of human flaws and failings that, though relatively minor, are still enough in the aggregate to have, almost invisibly, kept Jackie from achieving the success he spent his life pursuing. The film does not do Paris the disservice of trying to elevate him to martyred sainthood.
'Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris is an insightful and compassionate look at the life of an artist that eschews the usual Biography channel histrionics (little did Paris know, but his life was about to take a surprising turn.) Instead, Paris' story is perhaps most dramatic for how ordinary it is; in the annals of show business, there are thousands of stories very much like it, I'm sure. It's the story of a man who assumed that his great talent would be enough, a man with a gift for creating beauty, but perhaps expected that to carry him along to fame; perhaps he needed that fame too nakedly. It takes a certain personality to step out on the stage night after night, but if audiences sense to much neediness for approval, they can turn on the performer. There are many theories to consider in the Jackie Paris story, and for whatever reasons that fame eluded him, perhaps saddest of all would his need for recognition. It’s not such a terrible failing, is it? If one has such talent, can create beauty, and is eager to share that beauty… then, if in the process, one could also become a star, is that really so bad, too much to ask, just a little fame, please? Just the littlest little?
You're excused. The words I so helpfully attributed to you just now are pretty much the same words that ran through filmmaker Raymond De Filitta's head a few years ago. Driving down the highway, grooving to some jazz on the radio, he was caught off-guard when the band's singer inserted a line or two of spoken patter: "I'm Jackie Paris, and I have the blues bad." De Felitta took it as an audio message in a bottle, floating across decades to reach his ears; an obsession was born — who was, or is, Jackie Paris?
By the end of the film, you may not be a huge Jackie Paris fan, but you will probably be glad that De Felitta sought to ask the question. Paris, though never a big star, had definite talent. Some of the songs included in the film are guaranteed to have you seeking out at least one of his albums; if you don’t at least want to go download “Skylark” off of iTunes, then I’d say there’s something wrong with you. Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, the man could hold his own against any of the great singers to come out of the jazz era. It's not like he was laboring in obscurity, either. He was a favorite singer of many top jazz artists, including Charlie Parker, Charlie Mingus and others. Yet he never really managed to rise to more than a footnote in the big picture of jazz lore; all of which poses the question: what is the quality that moves some into stardom while others, perhaps equally or even more talented, languish?
De Felitta's film deals with this question as much as it does with the search for Jackie Paris, which is rather anti-climactic. Although some jazz encyclopedias listed Paris as having joined the choir invisible, De Felitta soon finds Paris to be very much alive, in New York City where he is about to embark, in his 70s, on his umpteenth bid for fame and fortune. In interviews with Paris, his friends, and other jazz musicians and historians, De Felitta's film simultaneously unravels the mystery of Paris' life and also the mystery of that fickle and illusive fata morgana called fame.
The film introduces Paris' undeniable talent to a new generation, and also reveals the special blend of human flaws and failings that, though relatively minor, are still enough in the aggregate to have, almost invisibly, kept Jackie from achieving the success he spent his life pursuing. The film does not do Paris the disservice of trying to elevate him to martyred sainthood.
'Tis Autumn: The Search for Jackie Paris is an insightful and compassionate look at the life of an artist that eschews the usual Biography channel histrionics (little did Paris know, but his life was about to take a surprising turn.) Instead, Paris' story is perhaps most dramatic for how ordinary it is; in the annals of show business, there are thousands of stories very much like it, I'm sure. It's the story of a man who assumed that his great talent would be enough, a man with a gift for creating beauty, but perhaps expected that to carry him along to fame; perhaps he needed that fame too nakedly. It takes a certain personality to step out on the stage night after night, but if audiences sense to much neediness for approval, they can turn on the performer. There are many theories to consider in the Jackie Paris story, and for whatever reasons that fame eluded him, perhaps saddest of all would his need for recognition. It’s not such a terrible failing, is it? If one has such talent, can create beauty, and is eager to share that beauty… then, if in the process, one could also become a star, is that really so bad, too much to ask, just a little fame, please? Just the littlest little?