Not that I was hoping to, but it is impossible to review this film objectively.
My fondness for Dylan borders on veneration. I had the good fortune of seeing him in the flesh recently, his voice frail, gait faltering, yet somehow in my mind he still transcends the mortal plain and all its restraints. He has been called a great poet, to me he is a myth-maker. His greatest creation, himself.
This film is an intimate portrait of a youthful Dylan, mere months before his Judas-ification at the Newport Folk Festival in July 65. He’s irreverent. He mocks constantly, without much care for who’s on the receiving end, be it reporters, or adoring fans like Donovan. He’s playful, assertive at times, annoying, distant, all of the above. He’s 24 years old here and making it all look very easy.
The film is brilliantly shot and edited, but that is almost irrelevant. What fascinates me more than anything is this moment in history. The British music press, even in post-Beatles England, seems naive and obnoxious, and Dylan is having none of it. And even with the camera right up against his face, he is still a mythological being, constantly pulling back and seeking the refuge of faux-philosophical banter. I don’t think the veil will ever be lifted, and I prefer it that way.
My original review was posted on Letterboxd.
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