Dylan Considered: James Mangold's "A Complete Unknown"

Neither the first nor the best movie about Bob Dylan, A Complete Unknown is nonetheless a respectable addition to the canon. So, how does it stack up to D.A. Pennebaker’s 1967 documentary Don’t Look Back, or I’m Not There (Todd Haynes’s 2007 sketches, my personal fave)? 

I’m not counting Renaldo and Clara, Dylan’s own 1978 film featuring his Rolling Thunder Revue (they toured in 1976, after which the concert album Hard Rain was released – I attended the Fort Collins, CO show, where it did indeed rain hard the whole time but was truly great anyway). R&C is semi-documentary, semi-fictional, Dylan making up versions of himself as he’s done lifelong. This 4-hour creation is in a class by itself. 

Timothee Chalamet as young good-looking earnest Bobby Dylan arrives in New York with a newspaper clipping about Woody Guthrie, only to learn his idol is at a hospital in New Jersey. He barely blinks at the big city, catching the next cab out. At the hospital he meets not only Guthrie but Pete Seeger, and sings them a song. Seeger, impressed, becomes an early ally. Edward Norton gives a nuanced performance as the banjo-frailing activist – if you think of the folk singer as a hard-line traditionalist, think again – even at Dylan’s notorious 1965 Newport Folk Festival performance, Seeger wants to pull the plug on the young electrified musician, but doesn’t – he lets the moment play out. 

Is it intentional that Elle Fanning as Sylvie (a stand-in for Suze Rotolo, who insisted on her privacy and was not named in the film) and Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez look so similar? I thought Baez was not given enough of her own fame to stand on – we see early performances where he doesn’t yet register with her audience, but soon he’s the one packing the shows. The script promotes a chemistry I didn’t sense, so I felt she put up with his hot/cold antics too long – in the absence of magnetism, I didn’t quite believe her. But Fanning does hit some of those gorgeous high notes Baez is famous for. 

Chalamet plays Dylan as a creature of whims, mercurial, contrarian, sliding out from under the crush of early fame and the demands of Albert Grossman (well played by Dan Fogler), his manager at Columbia Records. At first determined to guide this newbie and build a following by covering others' songs, two years later at Newport, Grossman can see his client is a true original and a star of his own making, and that a manager’s best move is to keep the tape rolling as the young dynamo takes off. Chalamet’s singing is no worse than Dylan’s, though he does sand some of the edges off that nasal delivery. 

Boyd Holbrook is a standout as Johnny Cash; before he married June Carter and (kind of) settled down, he was a wild man. He drank hard, took a lot of amphetamines (now we’d call that meth) and trashed hotel rooms, wrecked cars, chased women, got himself arrested. His friendship with Dylan in this movie was a touchstone – someone Dylan admired, who gave him all the approval he needed. “Track mud all over that carpet,” he said, and Dylan did. Though Holbrook – like everyone else – lacks Cash’s gravelly bass, he does his best, bringing that don’t-give-a-damn energy to the role. 

For a film approaching Dylan’s life as a series of Acts, I’m Not There has some fine sections: a Black teenager with a guitar, hitching freights and singing folk songs. Mid-sixties Dylan in a black-and-white sequence in which Cate Blanchett plays the insouciant subject of press curiosity who treats interviews as games – what’s the most baffling or outrageous thing she can say? What’s the most shocking thing she can do in this situation or that one? With those black sunglasses, black spiky hair, cigarettes, and amusement at the reporters who can’t tell when she’s bluffing, she’s a perfect Dylan. And in the early 70s era of the Basement Tapes with The Band, he goes all-in with costumes. He’s always been a shape-shifter taking on costumed personae – hippies wearing beads, colorful leather pants and cowboy hats, granny dresses and thin-soled leather boots – he could go hog-wild switching up his identity – Billy the Kid, a troubadour, a bandido, a joker – with The Band ready to play whatever roles he needed.

A Complete Unknown is a fine movie - lively, fun, capturing the spark of a prolific poet as he emerges into the light of public attention: startling, inspiring, resisting all attempts to pin him down - as he does today. Maybe early on he toyed with being a leader, but ever since he's been rebuffing admirers' efforts to elevate him, calculating ways to create offense, the whole time slipping off the microscope slide we're trying to squeeze him onto.

Maurice Sendak's "Wild Things" at Denver Art Museum

A comprehensive show, Wild Things features the art of Maurice Sendak. It’s wonderful, and exhaustive, and exhausting. After the Wild Things section, we stepped into the library, and thought we were done. We enjoyed thumbing through the many books Sendak illustrated, and those he wrote as well. I hadn’t realized I’ve enjoyed so many of his collaborations: with Ruth Krauss (A Hole is to Dig etc), Else Holmelund Minarik (Little Bear), and then his own works, finally breaking through with Where the Wild Things Are and my personal favorite, In the Night Kitchen. 

His drawing skill was remarkable – among his early works were cartoon-style doodling to music, with the impish imagination that was his hallmark: a dog sitting, then a larger goose coming by, sticking its head down the dog’s throat and vanishing. In another, a fish emerges from another creature’s throat and joins it in antics. His efforts at being a “serious artist” using oil paints, were nowhere near as captivating as his intricately cross-hatched pen-and-ink drawings of children, animals, and their play. 

The originals for Where the Wild Things Are were displayed, each in its own case. Up close, I marveled at the details as Mickey sails to where the wild things are: painted waves, but pen-and-ink lines too – man, those were finely-executed waves! His Wild Things were featured in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in 2002 – I remarked to another visitor that you know you’ve Made It when your creation is in the Macy’s Parade. It’s a great and well-deserved honor. 

With so many works to display, the exhibit couldn’t help sending me into sensory overload – every piece was note-worthy. A set of 3 illustrations for a story about a griffin showed first the large fierce griffin (bird’s head, lion’s body, bird legs) stalking down a city street, then a sketch, and finally the griffin at a sick child’s bedside, frowning at a thermometer in his feathery grasp. That expression on the griffin’s face was perfect – even if you’ve never seen a griffin, or a bird with a frown, Sendak’s blend of human with the features of a non-human, captures both the beast and universal expression. 

Sendak stated that his art must not be cute, nor ever condescend to children – their antics and their imagination. He stayed true to that credo, and you should see this exhibit if you can!

The Brutalist, a film by Brady Corbet

Bauhaus meets Bathos. 

I enjoy long movies, if the length is justified. In the case of Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist, justification falls in the category of “I just wanted to,” not “The story needs this.” Laszlo Toth, the Brutalist architect subject of this pic, is portrayed as a junkie, homosexual, a Hungarian Jewish refugee whose best friend is a Black man, in America starting in 1947. Are these Corbet’s conceits, inserted to make Toth more relevant to our time, or more appealing, or sympathetic, or whatever? And, more to the point, what do any of those character traits have to do with Toth’s vision as a designer? 

This busy movie has 2 fully-realized characters: Adrien Brody’s Toth and Guy Pearce’s Harrison Van Buren. The rest are vehicles, sidekicks, and amplifiers of their passions. Brody plays a tormented outsider with creative vision, as he has before (think The Pianist). Guy Pearce gets to chew the scenery as a volatile man rich enough to force people to his will. He becomes Toth’s patron after a surprise by his children (transformation of his fusty library/ reading room into a modern space), which first enrages, then fascinates him. 

What the two men find in each other is a good listener. Van Buren waxes long-winded about his relationship with his mother, and with her parents who shunned her as an out-of-wedlock mother until in their old age they sought support. Then he pulled a cruel trick. He tells this story with the pride of a man who has bested a demon. Toth’s more circumspect, but he does talk about his artistry – the only part of this rambling film that interested me. 

Temper flare-ups from the clash between purity of vision and the realities of construction are performative. And why is Toth’s Black friend Gordon (Isaach de Bankole), who follows him from Philadelphia to sharing his bedroom at the Van Buren estate, accepted as his friend and equal? This relationship is not supported by the reality of 1950s America. Gordon, like other plot vehicles, serves a purpose: he introduces Toth to heroin. 

Even Toth’s Judaism feels like Corbet checking a box – Toth doesn’t mind designing Christian churches, nor does he seek friendship or comfort in the synagogue where he attends services. As an Orthodox Jew I didn’t see him refusing trayf foods – either his Jewish heritage matters to him or it doesn’t. 

The film is indulgent – I could take an hour out of its running time and you’d never miss it. My advice to Mr. Corbet is to go see Universal Language, a brilliantly subversive film by Matthew Rankin, in which you never know what’s going to happen next, but it makes its own sense when it does. In The Brutalist, I could see every plot twist coming a mile off. 

Adrien Brody, on the other hand, should play Samuel Beckett – if Tom Stoppard wrote the script, and Matthew Rankin directed, I’d go see that, whatever its run-time.

Creativity at the 47th Denver Film Festival

Reliably, Denver Film Fest screens bios and documentaries about artists. 2024 is no exception. My three favorites are: Swamp Dogg Gets his Pool Painted and Secret Mall Apartment and Two Artists Trying not to Kill Each Other – all different, all homages to the spirit of curiosity, insight, and collaboration. If you enjoy how creativity manifests in actions and relationships, these films will light you up! 

In brief, Swamp Dogg Gets his Pool Painted chronicles the life and musicality of Jerry Williams, Jr., an R&B singer and keyboardist who started performing in his teens and by the time he reached his early 20s, realized he needed a wilder name he could grow into for stage presence and edgy antics, and so became Swamp Dogg. Over the decades he toured, produced recordings for a wide range of artists, and wrote songs performed by blues, R&B, Southern rock and country singers. Meanwhile he was making his own records, and getting canned by one label after another. In his 70s he’s a widower, at home in The Valley – northeast LA – sharing his bachelor pad with Guitar Shorty and the young surprising multi-instrumentalist Moogstar, a man raised in the church who could play any instrument well and found healing from a harsh upbringing as a flamboyant and remarkable individual. And yes, the pool gets painted. 

Secret Mall Apartment is just what the title says: an empty space within the structure of the upscale Providence Mall in Providence, RI, discovered and inhabited by a group of artists displaced by development from the abandoned mill buildings across the river. RISD instructor Michael Townsend, who sparks ideas constantly, leads the group of artists who claim and transform this space. Along the way we learn about Townsend’s other projects, and who could not be moved by the transformational quality of his work? It’s a must-see! 

Two Artists Trying not to Kill Each Other is about the midlife marriage of Joel Meyerowitz, prolific and successful photographer, and Maggie Barrett, writer and artist who, while overshadowed by his fame, is his equal in their partnering of souls. We see some of their art, but what takes center stage is an honest mature relationship, in which both are able to say what they mean, criticize, and renew their deep affection. It’s a treatise in how to grow and maintain a loving adult relationship. 

And, it’s worth mentioning that in the toolbox of all these artists is a large portion of kindness. This is what we need these days, so you should see these films! Thank you for the opportunity to see them, DFF!

Offshore, by Penelope Fitzgerald

This 1979 Booker Prize-winning novel embeds us in a community living on barges on the Thames in London in the early 1970s. These watercraft lie at anchor, traveling only vertically, subject to tides and storms. Gangplanks connect them to each other and to shore. They are in varying states of disrepair, as are their residents, who live there for lack of money, love of being on the water, or both. 

Nenna, 32-year-old mother of twelve-year-old Martha and six-year-old Tilda, is as close to penniless as a person can get. Her girls scheme to make money: when the tide is low and the light is right, they visit century-old wrecks in the Thames mud, where one lucky day Tilda unearths not one but two beautiful tiles from a long-wrecked cargo. They haggle with an antique dealer who insists the tiles have no value. Martha quickly proves she knows their provenance, and they emerge from the shop with pound notes to buy records in Chelsea. 

Other residents include Maurice, a young man who sings, dances, and turns tricks in swinging London and allows a fence to stash stolen goods. Richard has the best-appointed barge – and the money to keep it shipshape – though his wife grows ever less tolerant of life afloat. Willis, a painter, has the leakiest barge; the whole community supports his efforts to sell it to finance his retirement, conniving to keep his real estate agent in the dark. 

Fitzgerald has a wonderful way with words – here are a couple of examples: 

“Each foot in turn felt the warmth of his hands, and relaxed like an animal who trusts the vet.” 

“As to the exact locality of the pain, it was difficult to convey that it had grown, and that instead of having a pain he was now contained inside it.” 

This delightful novel is a time-capsule of an era: London in the 1960s was The place to be. But while the cost of living was lower than today, it was still precarious for those at the fringe. Then as now, the best support system is one’s community. What a lovely book!

Manifesting Time - an art installation by NC Weil

For at least forty years (I’ve lost track), I’ve been collecting Grandpa’s Pine Tar Soap boxes. Originally, my notion was to build a house and use them to wallpaper the bathroom. Well, it’s become unlikely that I will build such a house (darn!) – but I have continued to collect these soap boxes, flattening, bagging, and stashing them deep in cupboards. 

Recently I took a pair of wool gloves off a shelf in my closet, and was alarmed to see that they had been mostly consumed by moths. Other wool garments in there have so far escaped being ravaged, but that discovery spurred a decision – time to put those soap boxes to use, lining the closet with them. The soap is strong-smelling (although the reason I’ve been using it exclusively all these decades is that it lathers up well, cleans effectively, then washes off completely, leaving no residue of scent or soap. I challenge you to find a soap comparable to that!) – so I figured the boxes would deter moths. 

Soap Boxes? 

Since my collection began, the Grandpa Soap Company (“since 1878”) has changed the box design twice, so I have bright green (1971), dark green/ black with a smiling Grandpa (2002), and the current mostly-black version, a Grandpa playing sidekick to his product: 

The last 2 versions have come in 2 sizes, 3.25 oz (per the older style), and 4.25 oz. The factory moved from Cincinnati, OH, across the Ohio River to Erlanger, KY, between versions 1 and 2. The oldest of my boxes recommends “Grandpa’s Wonder Pine Tar Toilet Soap for toilet, bath, and shampoo.” The next iteration touts being Cruelty Free. And now the boxes say it’s plant-based, cruelty free, and vegan, and “Recognized by the National Psoriasis Foundation” as well as being “The Original Wonder Soap.” 

I found it first in a family-owned drugstore; once they discontinued it I had to special-order a dozen at a time. Chain drugstores wouldn’t order it for me, so I requested it from natural foods stores, and at some magic moment in the last decade, they began to stock it. Pine tar soap achieved its pinnacle of visibility in 2021, in a Super Bowl ad(!), when Dr. Squatch put their product in front of a mass audience – such a thrill for a longtime fan! 

I’ve been accused of obsession – my son wrote “A Statistical Analysis of an Obsession” about the hundreds of Scrabble games mi esposo and I have played, whose scorepads I’ve kept. But art often revolves around obsession – Picasso drawing, painting and sculpting bulls; Cezanne repeatedly painting Mont Saint Victoire; Samuel Beckett writing about pointlessness – that compulsion to revisit an image, an idea, a place, is a way of situating ourselves in time. Here’s this subject/object: what’s new? what’s the same? And how have I changed over that same span? So I’m not apologizing for a collection of hundreds of soap boxes, acquired over four decades and saved from mold, rodents, and people who purge. 

The Project 

I was so happy the day I realized that though I wasn’t going to wallpaper a bathroom with them, I’d found another place they could live. I emptied that closet, cleaned out 14 years’ accumulation of dust, and yes, even filled several boxes with things to get rid of. I took off the closet doors, set up a lamp and a stepladder, and measured the space. 

I taped together vertical strips of boxes to fill the different spaces, then glued them onto the walls using regular white glue, nothing volatile or toxic. As I got further into the project I started to play with the variables: 3 Grandpas, 2 sizes, and how many of each I had. 

And, serendipity! For reasons unknown, I had a single 4.25 oz box featuring a Golden Grandpa! This smiling Grandpa style is also described in French or Spanish, tho not both. The apparent gold behind Grandpa’s face in many ovals is an optical trick of my cell phone camera – there’s only one Golden Grandpa; the background of the others is silvery, no matter what it looks like in this photo. 

But, Why? 

In a world overflowing with misery, loneliness, and destruction, I offer walls of Grandpas, lovingly collected and delightedly displayed, albeit in a closet. You bet it’s silly. And over time the boxes have lost their pine tar scent, so it’s unlikely they’ll keep moths at bay. But I don’t care. I have marveled at the printing variations – really bright green vs moderate; Golden Grandpa; and the price tags from places I bought them off the shelf: Lee’s Drugs, Cash Grocer, and the many that didn’t put their name on their price sticker. 

When enough years have rolled by, and you’re still doing something, you have created a through-line from an earlier version of yourself, to your current being. And this collection, this obsession, is an element of your evolution – think of it as your Control Group in the great experiment that is your life.

The Taste of Things, a film by Anh Hung Tran

What a beautiful film! Every frame is sumptuous, steeped in a different time. The background is not a musical score but ambient sounds: a woodpecker, a peacock screaming, birdsong, and naturally the sounds of cooking – searing, boiling, chopping, stirring, assembling. We see patience, timing, meticulous attention to every detail, creation of complex sauces and rich dishes. All this occurs in the kitchen of a country manor owned by Dodin (Benoit Magimel). He is a “Napoleon of cuisine” according to his friends, four men who join him to dine. But the love of his life, his cook, is Eugenie (Juliette Binoche), the genius behind the food, in yet another role in which she fairly glows with inspiration and joy. 

They have a bountiful kitchen garden, neighbors, open land where hunters provide the birds of different seasons – the dappled grace of the French countryside. It is an idyll unmarred by invented conflict. Because of the film’s calm demeanor, we see depth of love expressed through cooking, a shared breakfast, a stroll in a sunny meadow. The drama of creating remarkable food is all the thrill we need – we only wish we could take our places at the table when the friends gather to dine. 

The only thing that made no sense to me was – no bread? My introduction to French food was my husband working the oven at a French bakery, hauling over a thousand baguettes out every night. To me, these crackling-from-the-700-degree-oven loaves are the epitome of French food. But there was not a baguette in sight, nor a batard. The closest we get is a boule filled with vegetables in a dense sauce – but the boule is more packaging than a food in its own right. How is this possible? 

I wept at the end. Perhaps this was due to the beauty and richness of long-developing love – or maybe it was the evocation of my own long-term love, of a man with whom I share the pleasure of good food, especially French, and the creativity manifested in the making of marvelous soups, roasts, fish in cream sauce, the meticulous efforts going into the perfection of each flavor, coaxing its finest form from every ingredient.