Review of “I’m Not There”

Even having lived it, it’s hard to describe the genesis of the Bob Dylan mythos in a way that could explain such obsessive observations as Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There.

I first heard Dylan — literally — while hauling my foot locker down the hall as I entered my freshman dorm in the fall of ‘63. My dorm counselor in the next room had that first eponymous album on the box. Being young, impressionable, inclined toward rebellion, ready to break out of my prepster malaise, I grabbed hold of the guy who was to be the bard of my generation.

I wasn’t alone. Far from it.

At some point we started having costume parties, where people dressed as images from Dylan songs. Most of the time they were human characters, often not.

It was the 60’s and, for the umpteenth time, let me repeat: If you didn’t live it, you probably won’t understand.

Anyway here’s this ragamuffin of a guy, beguiling, vexing, an impenetrable personality. But this incredible poignant imagery pours from him album after album like an open spigot. His politics fit. His psychedelic ramblings fit. His folkiness fit. His rock & roll fit. His elusiveness fit. We jumped aboard the roller coaster tilt-a-whirl.

So, despite the mystery, despite the fact that he was never there as some accessible campadre, we put Dylan on a pedestal. He never liked the view.

He was a punk. He was a poet. He was, ahem, the “voice of a generation,” though he advised his acolytes time and again it wasn’t so. He was/ is the greatest poet of the language, save that Shakespeare guy. Maybe better in the end. Which meant we wanted to know more. Which meant Dylan shared less and set up smokescreens.

It’s decades later and we still wonder. And he’s still on the road over a hundred gigs a year worth, pissing off audiences expecting Dylan circa ‘75.

So Todd Haynes’ movie is this cinematic riff on some of the stories and observations of Bob Dylan from back in the day. His youth allegedly. His first appearance on the scene under the tutelage of Joan Baez. The famous first trip to England. The electric break out. The motorcycle accident. The Tarantula years. The Woodstock respite. His family time.

A lot of it we’ve heard before. Much of it comes from the smoke rings of Todd Haynes’ mind.

But as Haynes flexes his imagination, Dylan vexes. As always.

The movie is a ponderous observation. Frankly, I was bored much of the time. I’d rather listen to the music, soak up the brilliance. I’ve never found it especially necessary to know the artists behind the art. Some are neat folks. A lot are assholes. What matter is it? That Phil Spector probably killed a woman in his mansion doesn’t take away from the brilliance of “By My Baby”.

So I’ve never felt the need much to try to figure out Bob Dylan.

(Though, for years, I always thought he’d be the first invite to my dream dinner party. Now I’m not so sure, but I guess he’d make the list.)

I care, but, you know, not that much.

Six actors play Dylan, including Cate Blanchett. It’s some neat trickeration. And quite a good idea actually, given Haynes’ rumination. This is a ballsy movie. Quite a breakthrough. Thoroughly innovative. Refreshing from a creative standpoint.

Which doesn’t mean it works. That’s something else entirely.

Give Haynes lots of style points. Give him extra credit for tackling an impossible contemplation with verve and gusto, if not much sense.

When all is said and done, I’m Not There doesn’t shed much light. It is an onanistic exercise. After a look, the viewer has no clearer picture of Dylan than before. And you could have spent the 135 minutes listening to Blonde On Blonde with a lyric sheet.

Which is not to say there isn’t some brilliant acting. Julianne Moore nails the syntax and voice patterns of Joan Baez. Cate Blanchett intrigues as the young punk Dylan you want to punch in the face for being such an asshole.

Give Todd Haynes an A for effort. But if it’s illumination you’re looking for, buy the albums. I’m Not There sheds no light whatsoever.

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