By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
Is Bob Dylan putting us on? His 2004 memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, was surprising for several reasons. It was plainspoken. It was candid. It existed. Sphinxes are hardly wont to reminisce, after all, let alone render their nostalgia in such concrete terms. Now Dylan has lent his imprimatur to Martin Scorsese's No Direction Home: Bob Dylan, a monumental three-and-a-half-hour "American Masters" installment crammed full of unseen live and backstage footage, archival photos, interviews with cronies and foils, and--ta da--the Man Himself's most cogent and fully enunciated look back yet, as coaxed forth by manager and archivist Jeff Rosen in the late '90s. The documentary (out on DVD and airing in two parts on PBS) could be the perfect culmination of the decade that Dylan has spent as a recovering enigma. Or its show of intimacy could be a dress rehearsal for the song-and-dance man's role of a lifetime: the patriarch in autumn, wearily setting the record straight.
Pardon my suspicion. Dylan fans generally fall into one of two categories--paranoiac or simpleminded--and I'm too young to have ever trusted the dude in the first place. The combative mid-'60s press conferences, the autobiographical fabrications, the mumbled cryptoquips, the endless string of overrated best-album-since-Blood on the Tracks-es--all were part of the legacy passed on to us post-Boomers. An integral part, too: Long before "irony" was regularly invoked as the fallback defense (or, alternately, the whipping boy) for anything tarter than bland earnestness, Dylan understood it as the native tongue of the public artist, and it's hard not to hear a trace of its accent still in his most sincere confessions. So as Scorsese's film attempts an honest look at a man who communicates through masks, it's worth pausing to puzzle over the dialectic between Bob Dylan and "Bob Dylan."
The story arc of No Direction Home is clear from the start, as flummoxed British folk fans, reeling from the clamor of "Like a Rolling Stone," denounce Dylan as a "prostitute." Flash back to the hero's humble beginnings as a Minnesota misfit fueled by rock 'n' roll and beatnik jive. He bumbles into Minneapolis, where he's exposed to folk music, then travels to New York and discovers just how fungible the details of a Midwesterner's past life become in the Big City. He plots (or, depending on who you ask, lucks) his way to fame as an adjunct member of both the Folk Revival and the New Left. But dissatisfaction with how others perceive him fuels an internal conflict that Dylan enacts in public, lashing out with a rebellious electric performance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. Weathering accusations of betrayal from his fans, he achieves an artistic apotheosis with "Like a Rolling Stone," yet goes down in the flood of publicity that follows.
Despite his subjects' attempts to impose their hindsight (Joan Baez trots out the same jovially condescending remarks she thinks have been putting Dylan in his place for years), Scorsese fixes events in their moment. There's an overriding sense that incredibly young people had been placed in a position to make crazy decisions, each of which seems preordained only after the fact. That sympathy extends to Dylan's folk nemeses--as foolish as you'd expect, yet also sometimes touching in their naïveté. And Scorsese subtly generates uncertainty by hesitating to ID a musician until about three-quarters of the way through a performance, which either makes you feel superior (Hank Williams, of course) or flummoxed (oh--that's John Jacob Niles). Sometimes the filmmaker's achievements verge on the impossible: When "A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall" soundtracks a montage of the Kennedy and Oswald assassinations, it registers not as one-dimensional Wonder Years pop history, but as a genuine representation of how prophetic Dylan's words may have felt to his fans at the time.
The real hookin No Direction Home, however, is the promise of Dylan's own perspective--and don't think he hasn't been working on this one. Bob has both a pat description of himself--"a musical expeditionary"--and an archetypal narrative to accompany it: "I was born very far from where I'm supposed to be and I'm on my way home." And indeed, his most eloquent sentiments regard his place of birth. For him, Hibbing typifies the sleepy America of the '50s (clumsily scored by Scorsese with "Accentuate the Positive" and "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?"), a fantasy in contrast with the reality of nuclear paranoia. Dylan shares a telling childhood fascination with circuses, and rationalizes his nondelinquent youth with a half-truth that might speak worlds about the character of the upper Midwest: "It was so cold you couldn't be bad."
Finally, the man who succeeded where Cole Porter and Chuck Berry failed--in convincing millions that pop music lyrics could be poetry--has begun to offer insight into his own character. Yet by the end of the first half of No Direction Home, as events overtake him, Dylan's voice blends into the background, overshadowed by big noises like Liam Clancy and Dave Van Ronk, who are as brassy as only the tangentially notorious can be. Dylan's '60s partner in mockery, Bobby Neuwirth, of all people, is among the more perceptive commentators. At the time, in Greenwich Village, the benchmark question for judging an artist's worth, he explains, was "Does he have something to say?" In his moment, it appeared that Dylan had everything to say.