A Complete Unknown - A dutifully titled hollow folk tale
The mediums driest genre just got its next entry. A film that over estimates its ability to be successfully shallow.
Bob Dylan is not exactly someone with whom I have artistic knowledge of. I couldn’t name you a single one of his songs, nor could I hum one for you either. But James Mangold isn’t exactly a director who should have any form of positive expectations put his way as of late anyway. However, if you attach a name like Timothee Chalamet to the board, then maybe we could start talking. Unfortunately, that is not the case.
Mangold’s treading of the life of a music icon is adapted from Elijah Wald’s 2015 book ‘Dylan Goes Electric’. A novel that weaves its way through the fiasco of the Newport Folk Festival events, just as it does here. As its title points out, through one of Dylan’s lyrics, ‘A Complete Unknown’ could be seen as a purposefully hollow recollection of the early days of the artist’s career. A way of focusing on the music, his identity, and a way of avoiding typical biopic troubles. Intentional or not, what follows is a film that is too caught up in painting Dylan in a mysterious light that it forgets to pull through any form of humanity.
We begin as a young Bob hitchhikes his way to New York City in search of one of his idols Woody Guthrie. After leaving the one place Guthrie actually was (New Jersey), and getting around to meeting the hospital-stricken folk legend; this film kicks into motion an arc of one man meeting his idols and its full-circle narrative. At the hospital next to Guthrie is Pete Seeger, played by the musically conservative Edward Norton. A man who stands as this doorway for Bob and his career. In lies this film’s biggest problem. It doesn’t treat any of its characters as humans.
Each music icon or family relative is a pawn for cheap ideals of a new-wave electric sound versus the ones who just want to keep listening to their never-changing definition of folk music. From the film’s first scene to the last, Dylan is never explored with any form of culture nor does it even attempt to. A man who has come from a complete unknown, like he randomly spawned in from the blue, with no form of emotional humanity behind his motives or character interactions. Just a man who doesn’t like his managers who feel his idea of folk is not what they want. What I may be describing might be wholly intentional, but a cheap title decider is not enough to convince me that every single soul in this has to be written like they aren’t of flesh and blood. Mangold is so certain that this empty approach will work, that its meaningful intentions are entirely meaningless.
Atop its tiny hill of empty discussion, is its even poorer attempt to paint a ‘60s backdrop. News reports, banners bright as day, the occasional rally, and MCU ass name-drops all try to paint the political scene of Cold War USA. The only thing it achieves is reminding the audience of Mangold’s failure to provide any form of philosophy to the table. A one-note political scene that is never used further than Elle Fanning’s presentation of a bright but conflicted Sylvie Russo. A big part of Dylan’s life, pulling him feebly between his music-centered self and someone who might have something behind those dreary eyes. Mangold’s treatment of each character as a loose ideology, rather than as anything human, leaves much to be desired. Each character is assigned a set of paper-thin politics in which they briefly fight over (if that) and nothing more.
Chalamet’s mannerisms are freakishly mesmerising. His performance is contained in his self-righteous character, whilst shining in his vocal moments. Perhaps this film’s most fulfilling scenes are when its idea of musical culture is staring you in the face, being forced into your ears. As performances go though, Monica Barbaro might be the only one who attempts to push against Mangold’s hinderance of a script. A contested music scene with names, relationships, and angry white men being flung at you left right, and centre. Barbaro, and her incredible voice, attempt to move this film beyond what its intentions are. In each scene, she is visibly compelled to force some form of interiority out of Dylan, but the screenplay has other ideas. Only going as far as introducing the juxtaposition of being stuck in the past against moving forward, in a surface-level manner, is unironically only going to get you so far. In this Mangold chooses the weaker move of leaving us nothing to chew on. A director who treats his icons like icons and not as anything worthwhile. Its only sense of humanity is trying to connect inhumane characters - loosely at that.
Its full-circle arc of meeting your Idol also gets caught up in the weak portrayal of too many characters. Norton’s Seeger is a weak antithesis to Chalamet’s Dylan. Bob’s reluctance to have Seeger give him a career, is swapped for disregarded looks and a Pete who never once moves on from his instruments. Whilst Dylan seemed to have frequent trouble with his woman moving in and out of many of his life, Pete and Toshi Seeger never faltered. Its choppy narrative and its tenacity to be frequently incohesive leads to a cycle of relationships that never feels genuine or passionate. It is equally as shameful that the scene-stealing brilliance of Boyd Holdbrook, playing Johnny Cash, gets shunned into this cycle of the idol becoming the lesser. A focal point that achieves nothing in the endless examples of its flipped-head commentary.
To treat Dylan as nothing, whilst doing the same to the characters around him, only leaves you with a film that is too assured that it is going to succeed, but in fact, things couldn't get much worse. Its fleeting moments of musical voice are the film’s only hope of any cinematic depth to its otherwise non-existent 60s music culture. Chalamet is great, but Mangold is on continual fraud watch.