By By Jesse Cataldo
For all the insight and information it provides, No Direction Home may be most potent for what it doesn’t show us. The Martin Scorsese directed documentary, which profiles Bob Dylan’s early career, is thankfully devoid of the unanimous approval so indicative of documentaries about contemporary “legends.” Among the film’s featured musicians and friends are no fawning devotees and no hip musicians raised on the singers words. There’s not even anyone under the age of 60. Rather than offering us glossed over revisionist history and wistful looks back from those influenced by Dylan’s celebrity, Scorsese takes a far more interesting angle, providing a work totally encapsulated in the world it’s documenting.
No Direction Home begins with 17-year-old Robert Zimmerman, a perfectly average Minnesota teenager with the perfectly average dream of escaping to bigger things. While only briefly discussed, Dylan’s time at home and in St. Paul-his one stop on the way to New York City-stresses an important feature of his character. His plain, humble beginnings are shown through the memories of childhood friends and area musicians who remember the teenage Zimmerman as unexceptional, if anything. Out of this appears to grow Dylan; a cunning, shapeless entity that realized the power of country and folk and began absorbing them into his own self-styled persona. This change, which the young singer goes through as he leaves home for New York, is suggestive not only of a growth from boy to man, but a transformation from a naive Midwestern guitarist to a conniving and talented New York huckster, who knew what the people wanted and just how to give it to them.
It’s in Greenwich Village that the young Zimmerman disappears forever and Dylan, more of a fusion of Americana musical influence and post-beatnik philosophy than an actual person, becomes whole. He takes to the folk scene like a sponge, sleeping on couches and playing wherever he can get a spot on stage. A wealth of performance footage from 1959-61 shows the dimly lit atmosphere of basement clubs, where hipsters and creative personalities gathered to hear the latest offerings of a burgeoning scene. It also shows where Dylan got a lot of his material. Beyond Woody Guthrie, his most obvious and most spoken about influence, his sound is drawn from all corners of the community.
While generally favorable, comments from his fellow musicians paint him as an eager youth with a devious, success-driven underside.
Folk singer Dave Van Ronk recalls an incident where Dylan
asked him if he could include a version of Van Ronk’s arrangement of “House Of The Rising Sun” for his first album. Van Ronk said no, since he planned to use it on his own album, to which Dylan replied “Oops.” He’d already recorded it.
Even more telling is the story of a musical historian, from whom Dylan stole 45 invaluable records. The historian chased Dylan down, cornering him in an apartment and threatening him with a bowling pin. Possessed with the self-assured swagger we see more of later in the film, Dylan manages to talk him down out of his rage and change the subject. He never gave the records back.
Stories like this provide the crux of what amounts to a demystifying portrayal of the singer. What’s left open is the true nature of Dylan’s character. Is he a deliberately snide fame-seeker, concerned only with his own success? Or is he truly the amorphous itinerant he describes himself as in the film, a musical drifter without a true identity who can’t settle into a fixed place?
Dylan, notoriously camera-shy, speaks frequently about himself in the documentary, but his own recollections are veiled and confusing and never stray far from the statements he was giving at the time. Besides, anyone knows that you can never trust a salesman.
If a salesman was all Dylan was, then he was enormously successful at it. He distances himself from the political left just as it honors him for his contributions, rebelling against the rebels in a prepared speech as he receives an award. Whether this was another clever switch by the musician or an earnest fear of being pigeonholed, it makes the young Dylan (only 22 at this point) only more popular.
Later on, he goes electric, confounding folk purists and driving mentor Pete Seeger into a rage. Concert footage from his 1965 tour is telling, with the crowd responding with both boos and cheers. Even as a fan screams out “Judas!” Dylan replies unfazed, “I don’t believe you,” knowing that he’ll have the last laugh.
While the words of contemporaries paint an interesting second-hand picture of Dylan, the most compelling parts of the film are those of the singer himself, drawn from archival footage and D.A. Pennabaker’s 1965 documentary. The singer, armed with a constant sneer and a belly full of sarcasm befuddles reporters at every turn. Asked about whether he really writes protest songs, Dylan shoots back, “Everything I say is a protest song.” He turns questions around, making fools of those who asked them, while keeping a constant air of humor around the proceedings. When asked why he uses motorcycles as a theme in his songs, he drolly replies, “Everyone likes motorcycles.”
The later Dylan appears disgusted with his own stardom, even saying that he never wanted to become famous, he simply did what he wished and the public followed him. It’s hard to tell if this is honest self-pity or him toying with his audience. The unwilling celebrity is usually the most desired, and Dylan was smart enough to know this. As he saunters around on stick-thin legs, hiding behind dark sunglasses and frizzy hair, it seems apparent that he’s having a great time either way.
The film ends with Dylan’s career peaking and he, just like the magician he has proved himself to be, disappearing behind a cloud of smoke. His 1966 motorcycle accident was the impetus for eight years of seclusion, which put him out of the spotlight, only to increase his mythical status.
By avoiding the aftermath of his legacy and focusing on the man (or lack thereof) behind the image, Scorsese provides not only an interesting trove of information about the singer, but another angle on Dylan’s life. The film may not decide whether Dylan was a genuine lost soul or a subtly self-promoting fame-seeker, but it’s a fascinating perspective on an already enthralling character.
Final Grade: A