Can I Have That Weekend Back?
Halfway through the day and I'm having to remind myself to hang on just four more hours before I can get some blessed caffeine, or a nap. The holiday was good -- hung out with The Group, survived two food comas, and borrowed a treasure trove of music for myself and fishnetfatale --but I managed to wreck my sleep cycle twice, most recently last night, when I couldn't sleep 'til well after 3 a.m. Ughhhh ...
Speaking of snoozing, last night I caught I'm Not There with The Homie Kate.
Ok, so I didn't mind the concept -- Dylan a la Doctor Who. But in choosing to spotlight "the idea" of Dylan, rather than the man, Todd Haynes took what could have been an intriguing look at him and rendered it into a masturbatory love letter, just another round of folkie nonsense and nostalgia.
Cate Blanchett, if you're wondering, is indeed the real deal as the post-electrified, pill-popping, worldly-but-weary Dylan (the film never names him, instead dubbing each "incarnation" by a different name, a bit of cowardice I'm not going to fucking bother with, because I'm tired and it's my prerogative). It's obvious that this Dylan is Haynes' favorite, as she gets the bulk of the screen time, and the most fully-formed character out of the six who are spotlighted. Problem is, there's already a movie covering this time of Dylan's life and general dickishness toward the world, so Blanchett's performance, while good, amounts to nothing more than a curiousity, an improv exercise writ large.
Still, she fares better than Heath Ledger and Christian Bale (one-note "tortured souls"), Ben Whitsaw (fucking pointless), Richard Gere (fucking unnecessary, aside from Jim James' electric take on "Goin' To Acapulco"). As Woody, 11-year-old Richard Carl Franklin rises to the occasion, but I have to admit: halfway thru the movie, I felt bad the kid was weighed down by the old fogies surrounding him. And in choosing to stop his narrative -- or at least, the semi-interesting parts of it -- after Dylan's 1966 motorcycle class, Haynes displays one more bit of cowardice: Where the hell was Victoria's Secret ad Dylan? Was Seann William Scott unavailable to play that "enigma"?
I wish I could say that I didn't enjoy this movie because I'm not a fan of neither Dylan nor the cult of folksie sheep that era assembled, one which Christopher Guest tweaked so well in A Mighty Wind. But the most telling comment came from THK herself after the movie. I asked her to go with me precisely because she's a Dylan fan, and even she said she didn't start enjoying herself "until I stopped caring." A fitting tombstone for the Sixties, indeed.
Speaking of snoozing, last night I caught I'm Not There with The Homie Kate.
Ok, so I didn't mind the concept -- Dylan a la Doctor Who. But in choosing to spotlight "the idea" of Dylan, rather than the man, Todd Haynes took what could have been an intriguing look at him and rendered it into a masturbatory love letter, just another round of folkie nonsense and nostalgia.
Cate Blanchett, if you're wondering, is indeed the real deal as the post-electrified, pill-popping, worldly-but-weary Dylan (the film never names him, instead dubbing each "incarnation" by a different name, a bit of cowardice I'm not going to fucking bother with, because I'm tired and it's my prerogative). It's obvious that this Dylan is Haynes' favorite, as she gets the bulk of the screen time, and the most fully-formed character out of the six who are spotlighted. Problem is, there's already a movie covering this time of Dylan's life and general dickishness toward the world, so Blanchett's performance, while good, amounts to nothing more than a curiousity, an improv exercise writ large.
Still, she fares better than Heath Ledger and Christian Bale (one-note "tortured souls"), Ben Whitsaw (fucking pointless), Richard Gere (fucking unnecessary, aside from Jim James' electric take on "Goin' To Acapulco"). As Woody, 11-year-old Richard Carl Franklin rises to the occasion, but I have to admit: halfway thru the movie, I felt bad the kid was weighed down by the old fogies surrounding him. And in choosing to stop his narrative -- or at least, the semi-interesting parts of it -- after Dylan's 1966 motorcycle class, Haynes displays one more bit of cowardice: Where the hell was Victoria's Secret ad Dylan? Was Seann William Scott unavailable to play that "enigma"?
I wish I could say that I didn't enjoy this movie because I'm not a fan of neither Dylan nor the cult of folksie sheep that era assembled, one which Christopher Guest tweaked so well in A Mighty Wind. But the most telling comment came from THK herself after the movie. I asked her to go with me precisely because she's a Dylan fan, and even she said she didn't start enjoying herself "until I stopped caring." A fitting tombstone for the Sixties, indeed.