Renaldo and Clara (1978)

          Surveying online remarks about Renaldo and Clara, the first (and, to date, last) fictional feature written and directed by legendary folk-rocker Bob Dylan, provides a sharp lesson in the cult of personality. Had this amorphous epic been created by some anonymous indie artiste, Renaldo and Clara would have been relegated to the slag heap of obscurity. Because it was made by Dylan, the picture is taken very seriously in some quarters, with advocates noting the influence of Cubist art as well as parallels to the 1945 art-house classic Les enfants du paradis. Whatever. Running nearly four hours in its original form and comprising a pretentious amalgam of concert footage, sloppy documentary snippets, and weakly rendered dramatic scenes, Renaldo and Clara is the epitome of self-indulgence. Dylan and his famous pals may have had fun shooting the picture, but the enjoyment does not extend to viewers, except during purely musical sequences.

          To be fair, devoted fans who have spent decades parsing the mysteries of Dylan’s lyrics will undoubtedly find much to analyze here—Dylan appears as himself during performance scenes; plays a character named “Renaldo” in fictional bits while his real-life wife at the time, Sara Dylan, plays his love interest, “Clara”; and rock musician Ronnie Hawkins plays a character named “Bob Dylan” in vignettes with actress Ronee Blakeley as “Mrs. Dylan.” Also featured are the peculiar affectations of the Rolling Thunder Revue, the notorious Dylan tour that’s featured in concert scenes, so whenever Dylan sings tunes including “Tangled Up in Blue” and “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,” he wears either masks or white face paint. Because, like, you know, man, the Dylan onstage is not the Dylan offstage, but even, like, you know, man, the Dylan offstage isn’t the real Dylan, you dig? To note that Dylan’s rumination on the complexities of public identity could have been articulated more succinctly is to offer a profound understatement. Except for those who are heavy into Dylan’s mythmaking, Renaldo and Clara will seem utterly interminable. Nonmusical scenes ramble on forever without any sense of purpose, Dylan and his musical friends deliver lifeless performances, and the real actors sprinkled through the piece—including Sam Shepard, credited with cowriting the script, and Harry Dean Stanton—struggle through uninteresting scenes that seem at least partially improvised. The only saving grace of the movie, unsurprisingly, is the power of music. Dylan is in great form, as are Joan Baez, Roger McGuinn, and others. (The less said about Beat poet Allen Ginsberg’s musical contributions, the better.)

          Renaldo and Clara was brutalized by critics during its initial release, causing Dylan to largely withhold the film from subsequent public exhibition, with the exception of a re-release showcasing a two-hour edit that dumped most of the dramatic scenes. On some level, the movie is harmless in that it represents a boundlessly creative artist trying something new and asking his fans to come along for the ride. And yet on another level, one fears that Dylan envisioned himself as a naturally gifted filmmaker—because, let’s face it, he was asking for trouble by opening the movie with the song “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” Points for self-confidence!

Renaldo and Clara: LAME

The Concert for Bangladesh (1972)

          Released during the early heyday of rock-concert films and documenting one of the first major media-event benefit shows, The Concert for Bangladesh has lost none of its musical power over the years. And even if the sociopolitical issues that inspired the concert featured onscreen have long since fallen from public view, there’s still something inspiring about the way legendary musician George Harrison put his weight behind an important cause simply because he was asked to do so by a friend. That friend, of course, was the iconic Indian musician Ravi Shankar, an important influence during Harrison’s days with the Beatles and beyond. Seeing widespread famine in the Asian nation of Bangladesh, Shankar and Harrison arranged an August 1971 show featuring two historic performances—Harrison’s first important appearance as a solo artist, following a long absence from the road that began with the Beatles’ cessation of touring in 1966, and Bob Dylan’s return to the stage after a lengthy hiatus.

          While Dylan, Harrison, and Shankar serve as the show’s de facto headliners, the concert also includes contributions from an all-star backing band comprising Eric Clapton, Billy Preston, Leon Russell, Ringo Starr, and the members of Badfinger, among others. (Purists will note that the movie actually merges clips from two performances that were presented on the same day in New York’s Madison Square Garden, though the film unfolds as if performances were contiguous.) Shot in a sleek but unobtrusive fashion by director Saul Swimmer and his team, The Concert for Bangladesh opens with some quick reportage explaining the circumstances of the show, then focuses on performances for the bulk of the running time. Shankar kicks things off with an epic jam of traditional Indian music that sprawls across nearly 20 minutes. Appropriate and edifying, though perhaps not thrilling for rock fans.

          Then Harrison takes the stage with his band for a ferocious run through “Wah-Wah” and a joyous version of “My Sweet Lord” (both from Harrison’s seminal All Things Must Pass). Soon the backing musicians make their presence known. Preston lays down industrial-strength gospel funk with “That’s the Way God Planned It,” while Starr amiably croons his first solo hit, “It Don’t Come Easy.” Clapton steps to the fore during “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” re-creating the fretboard pyrotechnics of the original Beatles version on which he was an uncredited guest musician. Then, after Russell plays a couple of bluesy covers and Harrison offers a lovely acoustic take on “Here Comes the Sun,” Dylan delivers a crisp set that climaxes with a trio version of “Just Like a Woman” featuring Dylan, Harrison, and Russell on vocals. Harrison closes the show just as powerfully as he opened it, and the whole rock segment flies by in a glorious rush. Like the best live shows, The Concert for Bangladesh leaves the audience on a high—a great testament to the discipline and taste that Harrison, who co-produced the movie with Allen Klein, exhibited in shaping the piece.

The Concert for Bangladesh: GROOVY

The Last Waltz (1978)

          The reasons why The Last Waltz has enjoyed adoring praise since its release are myriad. The documentary captures the final performance of the Band, the seminal ’60s/’70s rock group that first caught notice as Bob Dylan’s backup outfit when the folksinger went electric; in addition to being critical darlings for their artistic integrity and rootsy grooves, the Band had the rare grace to step off the public stage before they wore out their welcome. Thus, the movie is not only a compendium of passionate performances, but also a record of musical history. Additionally, the Band invited many of their famous friends to join them onstage, so The Last Waltz features killer numbers by Dylan, Neil Diamond, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and others. Beyond the stars and the tunes, however, The Last Waltz has something other ’70s music movies don’t: Martin Scorsese.

          Because the fast-rising auteur was a close friend (and onetime roommate) of the Band’s principal songwriter, Robbie Robertson, Scorsese was a natural choice to oversee the Band’s grandiose vision of a filmed farewell concert. And because Scorsese is among the most musically sensitive filmmakers of his generation, he seized the opportunity by creating an opulent visual atmosphere. Lighting San Francisco’s Winterland Arena like a soundstage (and supplementing concert footage with artsy flourishes shot on an actual soundstage), Scorsese approached The Last Waltz like a feature instead of a straight documentary. Therefore, an overall artistic vision is evident in every scene—Scorsese set out to elevate the feeling of a concert into something mythic, defining his subjects as magical figures emerging from darkness to make joyous noises.

          To realize this elaborate visual scheme, Scorsese enlisted several gifted cinematographers (including Michael Chapman, László Kovács, Hiro Narita, and Vilmos Zsigmond), thus ensuring consistently elegant camerawork. Yet the film also has a personal quality, thanks to unvarnished interviews with Robertson and his bandmates that Scorsese conducted in a Malibu recording studio; one senses the presence of Scorsese the fan and Scorsese the historian, not just Scorsese the artiste. Some have griped that the filmmaker actually put too distinct a stamp onto this movie, placing style over substance, but an argument can be made that Scorsese’s choice to complement the Band’s handmade aesthetic with a sophisticated visual treatment created a dynamic juxtaposition.

          No matter how you regard the presentation, though, it’s hard to argue with the music. Beyond performing their own classic songs (“The Night They Drove Ole Dixie Down,” “Up on Cripple Creek,” “The Weight,” and more), the Band provide thunderous backing for Dylan (“Forever Young”), Young (“Helpless”), and the film’s other guests. From the simple charms of the Band’s ingratiating music to the extravagant flair of Scorsese’s cinematic embellishments, The Last Waltz is filled with rich textures.

The Last Waltz: GROOVY

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid (1973)

          A critical favorite whose enviable reputation stems from lingering fascination with director Sam Peckinpah and the mystique that attaches to any serious movie altered by studio interference, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid has many virtues that are not immediately apparent—it’s like one of those classic novels that makes more sense after one learns about the context surrounding the novel’s creation. Thus, Pat Garrett on its own merits might seem merely a somewhat pretentious Western drama offering a bleak riff on the last days of a notorious outlaw. Seen through the prism of Peckinpah’s career, however, it becomes something more.

          The story is deceptively simple. Graying outlaw-turned-lawman Pat Garrett (James Coburn) reunites with his old comrade-in-crime, William “Billy the Kid” Bonney (Kris Kristofferson), in New Mexico. Garret advises Billy to leave the country because authorities are planning to hunt Billy. Appalled at the way corporations and politicians are constricting the frontier, Billy remains at large until he’s captured by lawmen including Bible-thumping deputy Ollinger (R.G. Armstrong). Gunning his way free of his captors, Billy starts a tragic cycle leading to a confrontation with his friend Garrett.

          Much has been made of this picture’s metaphorical heft, since the idea of a former robber betraying his lawless friend can be interpreted as a statement on the way greed changed the maverick spirit of the Old West. And, indeed, some dialogue and imagery emphasizes that exact reading, like the bit in which Peckinpah appears onscreen as a coffin maker. (See, he’s burying the Old West.) Taking the metaphor further, the picture can also be viewed as a rumination on individual-vs.-the-establishment themes that were prevalent in the national conversation at the time the film was made.

          The problem with over-praising this movie is twofold. First, Peckinpah expressed the same themes, with greater clarity and power, in earlier pictures like The Wild Bunch (1969). Second, Pat Garrett gets mired in lots of distractions, like the pointless scenes with Billy’s young sidekick, Alias (Bob Dylan), or the extended sequence of a female gunslinger (Katy Jurado) mowing down a group of opponents. This being a Peckinpah flick, there are also long vignettes of sweaty men drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and screwing whores in filthy rooms, plus a fair amount of slow-motion bloodletting.

          To be fair, the song score by costar Dylan adds a melancholy vibe (Dylan’s great song “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” was introduced here), and any assessment of Pat Garrett must take into consideration the fact that the picture has been released in several versions. For instance, a so-called “Director’s Cut” was released in 2001, nearly 20 years after Peckinpah died, so it’s anybody’s guess which version of the picture represents Peckinpah’s original intentions. Still, any film must ultimately be appraised based upon its content, and the two hours comprising the currently available “definitive” version of Pat Garrett feature flashes of brilliance in the service of a thoughtful but murky narrative.

          Like Two-Lane Blacktop (1971), another counterculture-themed picture written by Rudy Wurlitzer, Pat Garrett is a uniquely ’70s endeavor that makes for a great discussion piece, even if it somehow provokes viewers to invest the material with more meaning than is actually present. But then again, one of Peckinpah’s great gifts, both onscreen and in his private life, was stirring up trouble; therefore, perhaps the secret genius of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid is that it smashes signifiers together and lets the audience sort out the chaos.

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid: GROOVY