Mike Figgis
Red, White and Blues

The "The Blues" project was born from a happy intuition of His Grey Eminence Martin Scorsese. It is a sincere and passionate tribute to the roots of modern music, a straightforward work, without pedagogical pretenses, made by enthusiasts (experts, in the case of Eastwood) for enthusiasts. "Red, White, and Blues," which arrived in Italy on home video without hitting theaters, is the chapter of the project that deals with describing the birth and development of the British blues revival, and it is a blatant demonstration of how a director can flush a brilliant idea down the toilet.

Mike Figgis discovers, gathers, and interviews a large group of big names in 60s English blues rock, trying to investigate the exact mechanisms that led to the spread of the blues across the ocean, with the demeanor and verve of a police superintendent who would like to be a colonel. The director has at his complete disposal - the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off - the guitars, voices, and testimonies of Van Morrison, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, B.B. King, Davy Graham, John Mayall, Bert Jansch, Eric Burdon, Stevie Winwood, and Peter Green (before he disappeared from circulation again: he owes a lot of money to his band, he went into hiding a few months ago and seems to still be missing).  And good old Mike, not content, who does he choose as the lead voice to play the standards in the studio? But Tom Jones, of course, who better than him to convey and communicate the true meaning of the Blues. The poor guy does what he can: he sits aside nervously and embarrassed when Morrison sings, aware of his uselessness; he improvises a series of awkward duets with Beck, in an atmosphere of tension and unease, with the exasperated guitarist eventually having to tell him to calm down and let him play (it's not surprising the scene wasn't cut, it's surprising that someone allowed Figgis to make this film).

The unsuspecting viewer, first in eager anticipation to hear the pearls of wisdom from the most important rock musicians of the twentieth century, after twenty minutes is already tormented in powerless anticipation for someone to say or do something. And instead, nothing: Mayall seeks understanding glances with the sound technician, both bored by the dull and inadequate interviewer; the most interesting question posed to Peter Green is "what was your first guitar?"; Clapton is left to wallow satisfied and ineffectively in his chatter; Winwood is a bit more at ease, being more egocentric and inclined to talk about himself; Morrison (Deo gratias) takes control when it's time to play, but answers questions absentmindedly, devoid of feeling; Davy Graham(!) is left aside; and so on. As the film drags on its elbows for hours, it becomes increasingly clear that the entire cast is wondering what the hell they were called to do.

Compared to Scorsese's genuine enthusiasm ("From Mali to Mississippi"), Wenders' passion ("The Soul of a Man") and Eastwood's wisdom ("Piano Blues"), this film struggles to find a meaning. The director (and the viewer) had a unique opportunity and wasted it. Bitter to digest.