"I'm Not There": Pretension, Thy Name is Todd Haynes

Todd Haynes' I'm Not There, inspired by the music and life of Bob Dylan, is the kind of movie that makes me the angriest -- the kind that fools people into thinking that it's good, even those who should know better. I could probably work up a stroke trying to figure out how this self-love fest earned an "81% Fresh" rating on rottentomatoes.com, which compiles reviews from media (mostly print) outlets across the country, but I think the answer probably goes something like this: Anytime an American studio produces something remotely artistic or innovative, movie critics jump all over it like it's manna from Heaven. It's a sad state of affairs for American cinema -- we've come to expect so little from Hollywood that even the most pretentious bullshit passes for gold.

And that's what I'm Not There is, more than anything -- pretentious with a capital "P". In fact, this movie is so self-important that it deserves its own adjective: It is Haynesian, in its needlessly indecipherable structure (the movie is split into six different sections that intertwine, often for no apparent reason), in its self-consciously esoteric symbolism, and in its maddening length, which is somewhere around two and a half hours but feels more like seven or eight years (the film ends on two of the most painfully drawn out shots in the history of popular cinema, first of of a mysteriously smiling Cate Blanchett -- in full Dylan garb -- staring directly at the camera for a good twenty minutes, and then an excerpt of concert footage that fades to black over the course of an hour or so). I almost gave the credits a standing ovation.

The thing that bothers me the most about this film, though, is that there were actually quite a few moments that I really liked. For instance, one of the strongest scenes in the film is a surrealist interpretation of Dylan's "Ballad of a Thin Man" that involves a snotty British music critic, circus freaks and the Black Panthers. Not only is it visually captivating, but I found myself wanting to learn more about the song and its context so that I might better understand the allusions. Sadly, though, moments like this one are too rare in the film, buried under the excesses of a talented filmmaker who seems to be so in love with his own ideas that he can't imagine omitting even a single one. Ultimately, filmmaking -- like just about any other artistic endeavor -- is about making choices, and that's where I'm Not There falls horrendously flat.

Look, I don't mind films that are artistic -- in fact, more often than not, I love films that are artistic. And I don't mind if a filmmaker strives to make something really meaningful and comes up short -- the effort is admirable. But when a film spends the better part of two and a half hours touting its "difference" for the sake of vanity, it gets on my nerves, especially when critics use phrases like "an uncompromising, beautifully wrought essay on identity" (The Denver Post) to describe it. In fact, I can't help but imagine that the Bob Dylan portrayed by I'm Not There -- forever battling appropriation -- might be a little perturbed to know that the film he inspired devolved into such a circle-jerk of the cinematic establishment. Me, I'm just disappointed all around.