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When you arrive exhausted at the end of "I'm Not There," the latest work by Todd Haynes ("Velvet Goldmine," "Far From Heaven"), you wonder how far it is possible to endure risky decisions in art and the cinema ticket price without telling the cashier to go to hell.
Even though it is a film about the figure of Bob Dylan, "I'm Not There" has the same heart-wrenching impact as one of those experimental albums that are, frankly, unlistenable.
Someone might calmly state that the writer - or whoever appreciates reading it with a limited spirit - has nonetheless auto-inflicted themselves into the well-defined socio-ideological-progressive context, made of continual self-search, self-destruction, and renewal, to which the director himself belongs, and consequently, by an instinct for preservation, deserves such a pain in the ass as their destiny.
Those who remain by exclusion - mostly in the large array of this page's detractors - will say that (from a more exquisitely conservative perspective), we are nothing more than a bunch of fools.
And as fools, we make everyone laugh and have elected the laughter at each other's expense as a national sport.
Todd Haynes is an intellectual, undeniably a quite cool guy, but also a Hollywood type (not coincidentally, Richard Gere is also involved). He is a gay activist, a director who truly respects amateur art, yet at the same time, someone who lends his voice to a generation (see the aforementioned ideological context). And this too seems so experimental as to almost appear like a mockery.
In "I'm Not There," the life and genius of Bob Dylan are represented by six different actors: an eleven-year-old black guappo named Woody Guthrie, a priest with a face and manner truly like a priest's (Christian Bale), a psychopathic and drugged Judas (and thus the only one you might feel a bit of tenderness for - Cate Blanchett, a woman), Billy The Kid (Richard Gere), an arrogant actor (Heath Ledger) and the tormented spirit of Arthur Rimbaud (look up the name).
Something whose screening provoked in me an irresistible sensation of apocalyptic boredom to share with you in 2000 characters, tenaciously praised by half the amused world.
A perfect work of art requires about 1800 if you decide to use writing as a means of expression, otherwise, you fall into the cauldron of the avant-garde movement and risk confusing even your nature or someone else's laughter.
Depending on what you find easy to enjoy, or what you think of me, feel free to remove or endure the 200-character part where I'm the fool.
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