Bob Dylan is Masked and Anonymous

Bob Dylan once said "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." I'm no weatherman, and I can't say with any certainty which way the wind is blowing, but I know I'll want to avoid any breeze emanating from the cinema showing Masked and Anonymous, a movie starring and co-written by the rock 'n roll bard himself.

One of the characters, a network television executive, warns us early on when he says, "Something's starting to smell here." Dylan himself may have been aware that an odor was present when he decided to use a pseudonym, Sergei Petrov, in the screenplay credits. Director Larry Charles, the co-author, is billed as Rene Fontaine. Sadly, the all-star cast attracted to this project because of Dylan's involvement are not "masked and anonymous," except, perhaps, for Ed Harris whose brief, amusing cameo is performed in black-face.

Did I say "amusing"? I'm not sure if this is meant to be a comedy or a drama. It may have been intended to work like one of Dylan's songs from the ‘60s, you know, a surreal masterpiece like "Desolation Row" whose brilliant lyrics imply depths of meaning but are open to endless interpretation. But Masked and Anonymous is too haphazard and too pretentious to warrant much analysis.

Dylan plays Jack Fate, a now forgotten rock star released from prison to perform a benefit concert for an unidentified, fictional country racked by war and civil unrest. John Goodman plays the promoter, Uncle Sweetheart, a sleazy Colonel Tom Parker wannabe who hopes to pocket the profits for himself. The movie only comes to life when Goodman is on screen, but that's like saying an exhumed corpse seems to have been alive after burial because its hair continued to grow (an illusion resulting from the skin's having shrunk).

Jessica Lange is the representative for the skeptical TV network that plans to televise the concert. She furiously smokes cigarettes while pacing madly and looking frazzled. That's better than furiously praying which is what Penelope Cruz is required to do, unless she's praying for deliverance from this movie. Jeff Bridges, as a journalist named Tom Friend, seems intent on trying to actually deliver a performance, but that's impossible when acting with Dylan who is less animated than Elvis in the notorious "last photo" snapped while the King was at rest in his coffin.

This man who has made such imaginative use of language in some of the greatest songs ever written merely mumbles a few sentences of unremarkable and usually pointless dialogue, and offers an occasional voice-over that never succeeds in explaining anything. In one scene, Bridges as the journalist, harangues Dylan, saying "You're supposed to have all the answers" and compares him unfavorably with the late Jimi Hendrix. "Hendrix let it all hang out at Woodstock," he says without explaining what that means. Dylan defends himself, saying he's been letting it all hang out all along. If so, there's nothing there. In one of his voice-overs, Dylan himself says, "Maybe I'm just a singer and nothing more."

Of course, Dylan's statement is correct, or at least close to the truth. He is a singer. He's also a great songwriter, maybe even a poet, whose songs continue to dazzle and inspire music fans of many generations. He's nothing more than that, but that's more than enough. But many of his more ardent fans, especially those who discovered Dylan at the same time they stopped shaving and let their hair grow, consider him a guru who does indeed have all the answers.

If so, he's saving them for another project. There are no answers here, only questions, the most obvious of which is "Why bother?" Why bother making such a meaningless, deadening film, and why should anyone bother to see it?

Well, there is the concert footage, including a memorable rendition of "Dixie" and a tender "I'll Remember You." Here and there, you'll hear snatches of Dylan's studio recordings such as "Blind Willie McTell," a song that managed to convey more in five verses than Masked and Anonymous does in 104 minutes. But most of the soundtrack is devoted to cover versions of Dylan classics by everyone from the Grateful Dead to the Magokoro Brothers and Los Lobos. There's some fun to be had from a scene in the boardroom of the TV network where a wall-sized schedule of programming reveals titles taken from Dylan songs. Maybe someday, someone will make a TV series out of "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)." It's bound to be better than Masked and Anonymous.

© 2003 Brian W. Fairbanks


BUY HERE

Bobby Darin swings again in Beyond the Sea

Of the many biopics to reach the screen of late, Beyond the Sea is the best not because its director is a technical virtuoso (The Aviator's Martin Scorsese wins that contest hands down) or because its star is so well cast (Jamie Foxx in Ray is the winner there). Beyond the Sea trumps both because it's the most sincere and heartfelt. The subject is the late Bobby Darin, and it's clear that Kevin Spacey, the two-time Oscar winner who plays him, as well as directs from a script he co-wrote, admires and has great affection for the man born Walden Robert Cassatto. Such respect was almost a prerequisite for getting the green light for this project since Darin's star has dimmed considerably in the three decades since his death, possibly because Darin was almost impossible to categorize.

He started out as a rock and roller in the 1950s before transforming himself into a bow-tied, finger snapping nightclub singer in the ‘60s. By the end of the decade, he reinvented himself again, this time as a denim clad folk singer protesting the war in Vietnam and memorably crooning Tim Hardin's classic "If I Were a Carpenter."

It was an unusual career, but Darin was an unusual talent: a supremely gifted vocalist, performer, and songwriter who also distinguished himself as an actor, earning an Oscar nomination as best supporting actor for 1963's Captain Newman M.D. Off stage he was known for being brash, cocky, and impatient. The impatience isn't hard to understand. Darin's heart was weakened after a childhood bout with rheumatic fever, and he wasn't expected to see his fifteenth birthday. It's no wonder he was determined to accomplish as much as possible in whatever time he had. Death at age 37 is tragic, but for Darin, surviving even to that age was something of a triumph.

Yes, Spacey is too old for the part, almost a decade older than Darin was when he left the stage for good, but there is a slight facial resemblance, and, when crooning the title song and Darin's immortal version of Kurt Weill's "Mack the Knife," he even sounds a little like him. Yes, you heard right. In a daring and, perhaps, egocentric move, the actor has opted not to lip-synch to Darin's original recordings, but to do his own singing. The surprise is that he is generally superb, though no match for the real thing. Spacey handles the ballads with ease, but his voice is a little shaky on more uptempo numbers like "Dream Lover."

The key to Spacey's performance, and the ingredient that makes it a winner, is the sheer joy he exhibits in playing one of his idols. Joy is apparent throughout much of the film, quite an accomplishment when one considers that a happy ending is impossible.

When we first see Darin, he's onstage at the legendary Copa. He interrupts the performance to berate a musician and we learn this isn't a concert, but a movie set where Darin is starring in a film based on his own life. He argues with his manager, Steve Blauner (John Goodman), about the best way to begin the film, and whose memory of past events is accurate, when Darin as a boy appears to set them straight. The boy remains throughout the film, and he's not the only bit of fantasy we're to see. After we watch Darin's mother teach him piano and fill his head with dreams of stardom, reality is pushed aside as the streets are filled with singing and dancing, and a now grown Darin strides out of the Bronx for New York City to claim the fame and fortune that are his destiny.

Success comes with the 1958 novelty hit "Splish Splash," but Darin isn't content with teen idol status, and fights with his managers to record more adult material. His instincts are proven correct when his rendition of "Mack the Knife" reaches number one and wins several Grammys. Movie stardom is next, and on the set of his first film, he woos outwardly wholesome Sandra Dee (Kate Bosworth), the star of those Gidget movies. Against her mother's wishes, they marry after a courtship that finds Darin serenading his love with the classic ballad "Beyond the Sea."

They appear to be an ideal couple, but she resents his constant touring and ever present entourage. Darin's career also has disappointments which he doesn't handle gracefully. After losing the Oscar to Melvyn Douglas of Hud, he berates Dee, assigning her with some of the blame for his loss. "Warren Beatty is here with Leslie Caron, a best actress nominee," he screams, "and I'm here with Gidget!"

More traumatic than losing the Oscar is the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy whose presidential candidacy he supported, and the revelation that the woman he was raised to believe is his sister is actually his mother. By then, The Beatles and Bob Dylan had transformed popular music. Without a hit for several years, Darin scores a comeback with his sublime 1966 version of Tim Hardin's "If I Were a Carpenter." He hasn't merely changed his style of music, but his entire life. He tears off his toupee, throws away the bow-tie, and abandons Vegas and Beverly Hills for Big Sur where he engages in the kind of naval gazing typical of other "dropouts" from the era. When he returns to the stage, it's as "Bob Darin," and the songs reflect his more contemplative nature. The audience is not so introspective, so he returns to Vegas, toupee and bow-tie in place, and finds that Sandra Dee is correct: "People hear what they see." What they see is the Bobby Darin of old, and they love him and even his self-penned anti-war statement, "Simple Song of Freedom."

Reality dictates that this comeback be short-lived, and it's here that the film's fantasy sequences are most welcome in that they prevent the film from being too downbeat. Even after his heart gives out, Darin is back on stage for a final number. "Memories are like moonbeams," his mother told him. "You can do with them whatever you want." Darin's memory lives on, of course, in compact discs, movies, videos of his live performances, and now, in Spacey's marvelous tribute. Those who already know and appreciate Darin's talents are bound to enjoy Beyond the Sea more than those unacquainted with the legend, but here's an opportunity for new generations to be introduced to one of the 20th century's most versatile performers.

Bobby Darin still swings. So does this movie.

Brian W. Fairbanks

© 2004 Brian W. Fairbanks
Originally published at Paris Woman Journal


BUY HERE

Coyote Ugly: Flashdance Revisited

"Why is it called Coyote Ugly?" a visitor to the bar of that name asks Lil, the assertive blonde who owns the establishment.

"Cheers was already taken," she says, referring to the long-running American sitcom set in a Boston tavern.
The name Flashdance was already taken too, but Coyote Ugly could almost qualify as a remake of that 1983 blockbuster. Both films were produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, now best known for loud action films like Top Gun and The Rock. Both films boast an energetic soundtrack you can dance to. And both are essentially fairy tales in modern dress that exploit female sexuality while pretending to promote female empowerment.

Flashdance was the story of a girl who worked as a welder by day and an exotic dancer by night while dreaming of the day when she would pass the audition required for admittance to a prestigious dance school. In Coyote Ugly, we have Violet Sanford (Piper Perabo). Squeaky clean and squeaky voiced, she's a wide eyed innocent who leaves her New Jersey home for New York City where she hopes to find fame and fortune as a songwriter. Violet never considers the possibility of also performing her songs because she's been led to believe that stage fright runs in her family. The inability to face a crowd of strangers is apparently what prevented her late mother from realizing her dream of a performing career.

Once Violet reaches New York, she trucks her songs from one disinterested record company to another. One night while dejectedly eating apple pie in a diner, she observes a trio of beautiful women counting money at a nearby table.
"We made $300 each tonight," one boasts to another.

Judging them by their sexy attire, Violet assumes the women are prostitutes. She soon learns they are the staff at Coyote Ugly, a bar where they flaunt their stuff in tight halter-tops and leather pants while performing wild stunts on the bar. One of the coyotes, Rachel (Bridget Moynahan), is nicknamed "The Flame" in honor of her habit of setting fire to the bar, then dancing across it.

Our wide-eyed innocent is woefully out of place in this rowdy environment, but the bar's no-nonsense owner, Lil (Maria Bello), hires her anyway. It takes Violet awhile to establish herself as Coyote material, but her more assertive co-workers soon bring out the confidence she'll need to succeed as a Coyote, confidence that will also serve her well in realizing her dream to sing her own songs. Along the way, Violet finds time for romance with an Australian fry cook who collects comic books, and to visit her worried father on weekends.

Of all the moments in Coyote Ugly, the only ones that ring true involve John Goodman as Violet's concerned father. He provides the film with whatever heart it has, and also provides most of its intentional humor. But nothing is likely to provoke laughter (of the unintentional sort) quite as well as the ludicrous finale, which includes an appearance by country singer Leann Rhymes.

As far as sex goes, Coyote Ugly is as much of a tease as the women who populate it. "Look available, but don't be available," Lil orders her employees. The women are sexy, but the movie has virtually no sex, and, surprisingly, no profanity, unusual in an age when movie characters tend to be as foul mouthed as a rap singer. The movie is old-fashioned in other ways, too. The romance between Violet and the fry cook is as saccharine as a Doris Day movie, while most of the music is more than a decade old. At one point, the filmmakers go all the way back to 1961 for Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling In Love" for a scene in which Violet dances with her father at a wedding.

Shallow, silly, and surprisingly tame, Coyote Ugly is so slight that it tends to drift from the mind even as you watch it. Despite that, it is entertaining in its own empty and stupid way.

Brian W. Fairbanks

Originally published at Paris Woman Journal
© 2000 Brian W. Fairbanks


BUY HERE