shanejamesbordas
Joined Jun 2005
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Although certainly superior to the other two releases in the Eclipse 3 DVD set of William Klein films, 'Who Are You, Polly Maggoo?' still suffers from the same debilitating loss of steam and shapelessness which bog down the later 'Mr. Freedom' and the prescient (if turgid) 'The Model Couple'.
After a promising start with a Paris fashion show, where rake-thin models parade through a cave in Dadaesque conical aluminium outfits, we are introduced to the eponymous heroine who is being profiled for a TV show which shares the films title. Dorothy McGowan is the unconventionally pretty (and highly appealing) Polly, whose life story is that of a 1960's Cinderella; plucked from obscurity from a crowd of Beatles fans at Kennedy Airport, as she was in real life, and rocketed to become the next supermodel. We are also introduced to an ennui glazed Prince, who fantasizes about procuring Polly, while the director of the TV profile slowly comes to find himself ensnared by her bemused charm. Cross-cut with this basic story are pretty pointless secondary characters who amount to little in the grander scheme of the film. There are the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern like dolts who go off to try and fetch Polly for their Prince (their absurdist exploits become highly annoying before long) and an sadly underwritten Rasputin-like figure who seemingly works for the Prince's mother.
Although often labeled as a critique of the fashion industry (surely a very soft target for satire) there is much more going on in the heart of this film. Klein has plenty of scope to pursue the meaninglessness of celebrity and how all (even those who posses it themselves) can succumb to the fantasy ideal that it enticingly instills in us, along with notions of individual self and the ever present critique of American vs. European sensibility. However, too many scenes are fractured away from the main points (the minutiae of the Prince's daydreams get rather tedious) and the change in mediums, like the animated sequences, seem thrown in to try and grab the audiences interest from floundering rather than present any real structural intention. Fantasy sequences such as Polly's daydream about the TV directors family (reminiscent in tone to the 1965 Terry Southern scripted masterpiece 'The Loved One') show some gripping vision but, again and again, Klein drops the ball by succumbing to the same excesses which would later characterize a certain type of 1960's film-making (such as the all-star spoof 'Casino Royale' or the great Alexander Mackendrick's directorial swan song, 'Don't Make Waves' - both released 1967).
As a visionary stylist, Klein excels but as a theorist and social commentator he flounders hopelessly in circular arguments and observations. As with the director's other fictional films, 'Who Are You, Polly Maggoo?' gives plenty in the way of wacky antics and visually impressive set-pieces but delivers little in regards to a coherent, tightly structured film experience.
After a promising start with a Paris fashion show, where rake-thin models parade through a cave in Dadaesque conical aluminium outfits, we are introduced to the eponymous heroine who is being profiled for a TV show which shares the films title. Dorothy McGowan is the unconventionally pretty (and highly appealing) Polly, whose life story is that of a 1960's Cinderella; plucked from obscurity from a crowd of Beatles fans at Kennedy Airport, as she was in real life, and rocketed to become the next supermodel. We are also introduced to an ennui glazed Prince, who fantasizes about procuring Polly, while the director of the TV profile slowly comes to find himself ensnared by her bemused charm. Cross-cut with this basic story are pretty pointless secondary characters who amount to little in the grander scheme of the film. There are the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern like dolts who go off to try and fetch Polly for their Prince (their absurdist exploits become highly annoying before long) and an sadly underwritten Rasputin-like figure who seemingly works for the Prince's mother.
Although often labeled as a critique of the fashion industry (surely a very soft target for satire) there is much more going on in the heart of this film. Klein has plenty of scope to pursue the meaninglessness of celebrity and how all (even those who posses it themselves) can succumb to the fantasy ideal that it enticingly instills in us, along with notions of individual self and the ever present critique of American vs. European sensibility. However, too many scenes are fractured away from the main points (the minutiae of the Prince's daydreams get rather tedious) and the change in mediums, like the animated sequences, seem thrown in to try and grab the audiences interest from floundering rather than present any real structural intention. Fantasy sequences such as Polly's daydream about the TV directors family (reminiscent in tone to the 1965 Terry Southern scripted masterpiece 'The Loved One') show some gripping vision but, again and again, Klein drops the ball by succumbing to the same excesses which would later characterize a certain type of 1960's film-making (such as the all-star spoof 'Casino Royale' or the great Alexander Mackendrick's directorial swan song, 'Don't Make Waves' - both released 1967).
As a visionary stylist, Klein excels but as a theorist and social commentator he flounders hopelessly in circular arguments and observations. As with the director's other fictional films, 'Who Are You, Polly Maggoo?' gives plenty in the way of wacky antics and visually impressive set-pieces but delivers little in regards to a coherent, tightly structured film experience.
From the onset, 'I'm Not There' will leave you reeling with post-modern malaise. Countless referencing and pastiches of cinematic milestones such as '2001', '8 ½', 'Stardust Memories', 'If
.', 'The Man Who Fell to Earth', 'Whity', 'Breathless', 'Week End' as well as the slate of Dylan documentaries ('Eat the Document', 'Don't Look Back', 'The Other Side of the Mirror', 'No Direction Home') and Dylan's own 'Renaldo and Clara' and 'Masked and Anonymous' films, anyone with the slightest knowledge of both Dylan and classic cinema will be suffering cultural vertigo.
It's hard to see who this film is appealing to. Dylan die-hards will be groaning at the pedantic references and those with only a casual interest in the great man will be scratching their heads to make anything of it at all. For such an obvious film, one is left with no more knowledge of Dylan than before. Even the most mundane bio-pics (which this seems to be consciously reacting against) can have knack of propelling interest in a subject, but newbies will probably not be enticed to investigate any further after enduring this mess.
Although a handsome looking production (showing none of the corner cutting that was only too obvious in the similarly misguided 'Velvet Goldmine') and well scored with plenty of great original Dylan recordings, even these assets seem to be a crutch. The songs come so thick and fast it's as if Haynes is using them as some sort of glue to hold our interest along with the pretty photography. And for all its purported experimentalism, the film remains highly derivative and obvious. The heavy handed use of Dylan lyrics as dialogue is deeply cringe-worthy, as are the sledgehammer visual clues (such as the tarantula itself a reference to a shot in Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona' - walking across the screen during shots of Blanchett's Dylan writing).
Most embarrassing of all are the celebrity performances. Christian Bale is truly terrible, covering the folk-troubadour Dylan and (an in-joke perhaps?) the "Christian" Dylan like a bad comedian. Cate Blanchett is a pretty impressive mimic in general (witness her Kate Hepburn in 'The Aviator') but her performance falls hopelessly apart every time she opens her mouth, as her uncanny physical approximation is shattered by her all too self-conscious whine.
Most pointless of all are Ben Whishaw's 'Rimbaud' (groan), who serves no real purpose other than to get some sloganeering across, and the Heath Ledger/Charlotte Gainsbourg subplot which only serves to bog things down. This is exasperated by the fact that Ledger's character is actually that of an actor who played the role of Bale's fictional Dylan in a movie within the movie (if that makes any sense!) It's obviously modelled on the domesticated, Woodstock-era Dylan but just what it achieves by being at a further remove from its source is something lost entirely on this viewer.
To be sure, there's an interesting film essay to be made about Dylan (if any more really need be documented on the great man) but it ain't this, babe.
It's hard to see who this film is appealing to. Dylan die-hards will be groaning at the pedantic references and those with only a casual interest in the great man will be scratching their heads to make anything of it at all. For such an obvious film, one is left with no more knowledge of Dylan than before. Even the most mundane bio-pics (which this seems to be consciously reacting against) can have knack of propelling interest in a subject, but newbies will probably not be enticed to investigate any further after enduring this mess.
Although a handsome looking production (showing none of the corner cutting that was only too obvious in the similarly misguided 'Velvet Goldmine') and well scored with plenty of great original Dylan recordings, even these assets seem to be a crutch. The songs come so thick and fast it's as if Haynes is using them as some sort of glue to hold our interest along with the pretty photography. And for all its purported experimentalism, the film remains highly derivative and obvious. The heavy handed use of Dylan lyrics as dialogue is deeply cringe-worthy, as are the sledgehammer visual clues (such as the tarantula itself a reference to a shot in Ingmar Bergman's 'Persona' - walking across the screen during shots of Blanchett's Dylan writing).
Most embarrassing of all are the celebrity performances. Christian Bale is truly terrible, covering the folk-troubadour Dylan and (an in-joke perhaps?) the "Christian" Dylan like a bad comedian. Cate Blanchett is a pretty impressive mimic in general (witness her Kate Hepburn in 'The Aviator') but her performance falls hopelessly apart every time she opens her mouth, as her uncanny physical approximation is shattered by her all too self-conscious whine.
Most pointless of all are Ben Whishaw's 'Rimbaud' (groan), who serves no real purpose other than to get some sloganeering across, and the Heath Ledger/Charlotte Gainsbourg subplot which only serves to bog things down. This is exasperated by the fact that Ledger's character is actually that of an actor who played the role of Bale's fictional Dylan in a movie within the movie (if that makes any sense!) It's obviously modelled on the domesticated, Woodstock-era Dylan but just what it achieves by being at a further remove from its source is something lost entirely on this viewer.
To be sure, there's an interesting film essay to be made about Dylan (if any more really need be documented on the great man) but it ain't this, babe.
