It warms my heart to hear it said out loud.
Like many cinephiles out there, the Academy Awards were, as a kid, a big draw for me. I never missed watching it on TV. From start to finish. I hung on every word, every sound, every clip. As I got older, started working at film festivals, moved to Hollywood, started working in the industry itself, sold screenplays, directed two features, wrote for the studios, worked over 2 decades in casting, and have been represented by UTA, ICM and Gersh, my outlook on both this town, this business and the Academy Awards changed quite dramatically. Peeling back that curtain can be a scary thing. Like when one of my friends told me “Be careful of meeting your heroes. There’s a good chance you’ll be disappointed.” Of course, this is not always true. But I think the idea he was trying to get across was that, oftentimes, people, places and ideas exist in our mind in a somewhat more “perfect” or fanciful way than they may in actuality.
This is truly appalling. It seems each and every year, film critics lose all perspective on films and filmmaking. If anyone out there believes GRAVITY to be a well-written film that reveals anything beyond the most one-dimensional and least introspective narrative created for the sole purpose of offering an audience what is essentially an overlong roller-coaster ride, then you’ve probably spent far too much time watching bad film after bad film for something like GRAVITY to even be considered for an award outside of special effects.
And maybe that’s exactly what’s happened. Critics have to see SO many films — most of them not particularly daring or good — that when they sit down to watch something that even moderately engages them, they jump out of their seat with unabashed excitement and toss awards at it. And maybe the same is true for the average audience member who doesn’t even know films made outside of the Hollywood system exist.
But that excuse doesn’t keep these annual abominations from being any less embarrassing. Anyone who has followed my posts for any length of time knows that I get my knickers all in a knot come this time of year since it is as traditional as Thanksgiving and Christmas that awards and accolades be given to at least one film that simply has little-to-nothing of value to offer. At least by my personal standards. Which I realize are not necessarily anyone else’s standards. But I’m exhausted standing by and watching daring, introspective and genuinely creative films take a backseat to movies that barely scratch the surface of the human experience, no less minimize it to a series of predictable plot points and sanitized stereotypes.
GRAVITY, while quite possibly being a great thrill ride (I, to be honest, got bored after a time), offers nothing else to a movie-goer who desires an experience that extends beyond the closing credits. Now don’t misunderstand, I definitely believe there is value in escapist cinema. Not every film need challenge us to the very core of our beings… But when we award a film Best Picture Of The Year, what exactly are we saying? Are we honoring the craft of filmmaking, of storytelling, of cinema? Or are we just saying, “Yeah, that was fun.”? Because GRAVITY’s technical achievements hide an overwhelming lack of story or character. One friend wittily commented that he recommended taking Dramamine before seeing GRAVITY just for the dialogue alone! So clearly I’m not the first or only person to point out the wretchedness of this film’s script. And yet the Los Angeles Film Critics Association bestow their highest honor on this poorly written thrill ride and effects extravaganza.
And speaking of effects, I still think the effects in Kubrick’s 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY capture a sense of outer (and inner) space more poignantly and effectively than GRAVITY managed with all its 21st century technology. There is not a single image or sequence in Cuarón’s vision and choice of compositions that hold so much as an ounce of the insight and (yes, I’m gonna say it) gravity that a single frame of Kubrick’s opus did. And that film was made 45 years ago! Yes, I know, I’ve been told we’re not supposed to compare a fun film like GRAVITY to a masterpiece like 2001, but then I must return to my original inquiry and ask what, then, are we celebrating here exactly? George Clooney playing a dashing rogue in space? I often enjoy Clooney as an actor. He’s charming and likable and smart. But in GRAVITY, he is a constant reminder that we are nowhere near outer space; we have our feet firmly grounded in a soundstage with a PR machine inches away and at the ready. There’s not a single moment when the actor, director or writers allowed this character to be even subtly human. They all seem to be far more interested in his star-power and charm than they are in the situation this character finds himself in.
Now I could go on and on about why I believe GRAVITY is a poor film whose effects and 3D experience loosely veil its vast emptiness, but the film itself doesn’t actually deserve any more time than I’ve already given it. But it’s critics and audiences who have allowed themselves to believe they are getting something rich, something wonderful, that I take vehement issue with.
Sadly, film critics these days (of the “professional” variety) are largely made up of folks from other areas of a newspaper or magazine that have been moved over to the Film Section and found themselves suddenly being asked to present themselves as film critics. There are so few out there writing who have any real knowledge of cinema or the language and history of film. They are often no more than a collection of people who maybe like movies, but they are NOT in a position to be intelligently critical of film. And in pretending to be, they diminish the artform itself by publicly celebrating its most mediocre entries en masse. And that, to put it in the simplest terms possible, makes me sad.
After writing this post, I went back to the theaters to see GRAVITY in 3D as I had only seen it in 2D at the time of this writing. If you would like to read my thoughts comparing the two experiences of the film, please go here: GRAVITY: 2D vs 3D.
In March 1948, writer Raymond Chandler penned a piece in The Atlantic entitled OSCAR NIGHT IN HOLLYWOOD. Anyone who reads my blog on a semi-regular basis is already familiar with my strong opinions on the current state of Hollywood filmmaking and its own awards ceremony that never fails to shamelessly flatter itself. Mr. Chandler’s piece could have been taken directly out of my own head, though I never could have stated it anywhere near as eloquently as Mr. Chandler did so many years ago.
I am reminded of a recent “spat” I had with a reader of my blog who argued quite vehemently in favor of the artistic merits and outright “brilliance” of last year’s hit RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES. I was very candid –perhaps even indelicate– in sharing my horror at the mere notion that anyone could bestow the words “intelligent” or “well-written” to such a tepid, slothful piece of filmmaking. Perhaps it was the title of my piece, RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES OR THE DECENT OF AMERICAN INTELLIGENCE, that irked my reader so. You can read our exchange there in the comments section. I was, I’m embarrassed to admit, not my usual open-minded self, but somewhat brazenly repulsed by this particular reader’s insistence that APES was a bold and daring work of art. His sole argument, in addition to an overwhelming insistence that the film simply “was” brilliant beyond opinion or viewpoint, was to consistently hold up its box-office success and rather high Rotten Tomatoes score as inarguable proof of its artistic eminence. Comments like “In what universe is this film not shot at the highest level of the art?” or “If a supermajority of critics and audience opinions means nothing to you, as well as half a billion in cash, then I’m not sure I really care what it is that means so much to you,” was the precarious ledge his argument teetered on.
And so it was that I found myself somewhat relieved and giddy to discover Mr. Chandler’s piece. He and I may well have agreed on the current state of Hollywood films. Both the self-congratulatory attitudes of those at the top who believe the hype (hell, they create the hype) that celebrates their genius for creating these financially and critically successful films, as well as those who unwittingly praise those very same films and filmmakers, all the while unaware of the slow and deliberate manipulation of their ability to recognize something that lacks the most basic ingredients for well-crafted storytelling –never mind good art– for what it actually is. Particularly when faced with unrelenting insistence by those who have drunk the same Kool-Aid, that a particular work is undeniably “brilliant.”
To understand the great capacity cinema has as an art form, what boundless arenas it has the power and complexity to explore, is to also recognize when that goal falls short, despite any proclamations and box-office numbers offered up as proof to the contrary.
“Not only is the motion picture an art, but it is the one entirely new art that has been evolved on this planet for hundreds of years. It is the only art at which we of this generation have any possible chance to greatly excel.” –Raymond Chandler
Five or six years ago a distinguished writer-director (if I may be permitted the epithet in connection with a Hollywood personage) was co-author of a screen play nominated for an Academy Award. He was too nervous to attend the proceedings on the big night, so he was listening to a broadcast at home, pacing the floor tensely, chewing his fingers, taking long breaths, scowling and debating with himself in hoarse whispers whether to stick it out until the Oscars were announced, or turn the damned radio off and read about it in the papers the next morning. Getting a little tired of all this artistic temperament in the home, his wife suddenly came up with one of those awful remarks which achieve a wry immortality in Hollywood: “For Pete’s sake, don’t take it so seriously, darling. After all, Luise Rainer won it twice.”
To those who did not see the famous telephone scene in The Great Ziegfeld, or any of the subsequent versions of it which Miss Rainer played in other pictures, with and without telephone, this remark will lack punch. To others it will serve as well as anything to express that cynical despair with which Hollywood people regard their own highest distinction. It isn’t so much that the awards never go to fine achievements as that those fine achievements are not rewarded as such. They are rewarded as fine achievements in box-office hits. You can’t be an All-American on a losing team. Technically, they are voted, but actually they are not decided by the use of whatever artistic and critical wisdom Hollywood may happen to possess. They are ballyhooed, pushed, yelled, screamed, and in every way propagandized into the consciousness of the voters so incessantly, in the weeks before the final balloting, that everything except the golden aura of the box office is forgotten.
The Motion Picture Academy, at considerable expense and with great efficiency, runs all the nominated pictures at its own theater, showing each picture twice, once in the afternoon, once in the evening. A nominated picture is one in connection with which any kind of work is nominated for an award, not necessarily acting, directing, or writing; it may be a purely technical matter such as set-dressing or sound work. This running of pictures has the object of permitting the voters to look at films which they may happen to have missed or to have partly forgotten. It is an attempt to make them realize that pictures released early in the year, and since overlaid with several thicknesses of battered celluloid, are still in the running and that consideration of only those released a short time before the end of the year is not quite just.
The effort is largely a waste. The people with votes don’t go to these showings. They send their relatives, friends, or servants. They have had enough of looking at pictures, and the voices of destiny are by no means inaudible in the Hollywood air. They have a brassy tone, but they are more than distinct.
All this is good democracy of a sort. We elect Congressmen and Presidents in much the same way, so why not actors, cameramen, writers, and all rest of the people who have to do with the making of pictures? If we permit noise, ballyhoo, and theater to influence us in the selection of the people who are to run the country, why should we object to the same methods in the selection of meritorious achievements in the film business? If we can huckster a President into the White House, why cannot we huckster the agonized Miss Joan Crawford or the hard and beautiful Miss Olivia de Havilland into possession of one of those golden statuettes which express the motion picture industry’s frantic desire to kiss itself on the back of its neck? The only answer I can think of is that the motion picture is an art. I say this with a very small voice. It is an inconsiderable statement and has a hard time not sounding a little ludicrous. Nevertheless it is a fact, not in the least diminished by the further facts that its ethos is so far pretty low and that its techniques are dominated by some pretty awful people.
If you think most motion pictures are bad, which they are (including the foreign), find out from some initiate how they are made, and you will be astonished that any of them could be good. Making a fine motion picture is like painting “The Laughing Cavalier” in Macy’s basement, with a floorwalker to mix your colors for you. Of course most motion pictures are bad. Why wouldn’t they be? Apart from its own intrinsic handicaps of excessive cost, hypercritical bluenosed censorship, and the lack of any single-minded controlling force in the making, the motion picture is bad because 90 per cent of its source material is tripe, and the other 10 per cent is a little too virile and plain-spoken for the putty-minded clerics, the elderly ingénues of the women’s clubs, and the tender guardians of that godawful mixture of boredom and bad manners known more eloquently as the Impressionable Age.
The point is not whether there are bad motion pictures or even whether the average motion picture is bad, but whether the motion picture is an artistic medium of sufficient dignity and accomplishment to be treated with respect by the people who control its destinies. Those who deride the motion picture usually are satisfied that they have thrown the book at it by declaring it to be a form of mass entertainment. As if that meant anything. Greek drama, which is still considered quite respectable by most intellectuals, was mass entertainment to the Athenian freeman. So, within its economic and topographical limits, was the Elizabethan drama. The great cathedrals of Europe, although not exactly built to while away an afternoon, certainly had an aesthetic and spiritual effect on the ordinary man. Today, if not always, the fugues and chorales of Bach, the symphonies of Mozart, Borodin, and Brahms, the violin concertos of Vivaldi, the piano sonatas of Scarlatti, and a great deal of what was once rather recondite music are mass entertainment by virtue of radio. Not all fools love it, but not all fools love anything more literate than a comic strip. It might reasonably be said that all art at some time and in some manner becomes mass entertainment, and that if it does not it dies and is forgotten.
The motion picture admittedly is faced with too large a mass; it must please too many people and offend too few, the second of these restrictions being infinitely more damaging to it artistically than the first. The people who sneer at the motion picture as an art form are furthermore seldom willing to consider it at its best. The insist upon judging it by the picture they saw last week or yesterday; which is even more absurd (in view of the sheer quantity of production) than to judge literature by last week’s best-sellers, or the dramatic art by even the best of the current Broadway hits. In a novel you can still say what you like, and the stage is free almost to the point of obscenity, but the motion picture made in Hollywood, if it is to create art at all, must do so within such strangling limitations of subject and treatment that it is a blind wonder it ever achieves any distinction beyond the purely mechanical slickness of a glass and chromium bathroom. If it were merely a transplanted literary or dramatic art, it certainly would not. The hucksters and the bluenoses would between them see to that.
But the motion picture is not a transplanted literary or dramatic art, any more than it is a plastic art. It has elements of all these, but in its essential structure it is much closer to music, in the sense that its finest effects can be independent of precise meaning, that its transitions can be more eloquent than its high-lit scenes, and that its dissolves and camera movements, which cannot be censored, are often far more emotionally effective than its plots, which can. Not only is the motion picture an art, but it is the one entirely new art that has been evolved on this planet for hundreds of years. It is the only art at which we of this generation have any possible chance to greatly excel.
In painting, music, and architecture we are not even second-rate by comparison with the best work of the past. In sculpture we are just funny. In prose literature we not only lack style but we lack the educational and historical background to know what style is. Our fiction and drama are adept, empty, often intriguing, and so mechanical that in another fifty years at most they will be produced by machines with rows of push buttons. We have no popular poetry in the grand style, merely delicate or witty or bitter or obscure verses. Our novels are transient propaganda when they are what is called “significant,” and bedtime reading when they are not.
But in the motion picture we possess an art medium whose glories are not all behind us. It has already produced great work, and if, comparatively and proportionately, far too little of that great work has been achieved in Hollywood, I think that is all the more reason why in its annual tribal dance of the stars and the big-shot producers Hollywood should contrive a little quiet awareness of the fact. Of course it won’t. I’m just daydreaming.II
Show business has always been a little overnoisy, overdressed, overbrash. Actors are threatened people. Before films came along to make them rich they often had need of a desperate gaiety. Some of these qualities prolonged beyond a strict necessity have passed into the Hollywood mores and produced that very exhausting thing, the Hollywood manner,which is a chronic case of spurious excitement over absolutely nothing. Nevertheless, and for once in a lifetime, I have to admit that Academy Awards night is a good show and quite funny in spots, although I’ll admire you if you can laugh at all of it.
If you can go past those awful idiot faces on the bleachers outside the theater without a sense of the collapse of the human intelligence; if you can stand the hailstorm of flash bulbs popping at the poor patient actors who, like kings and queens, have never the right to look bored; if you can glance out over this gathered assemblage of what is supposed to be the elite of Hollywood and say to yourself without a sinking feeling, “In these hands lie the destinies of the only original art the modern world has conceived “; if you can laugh, and you probably will, at the cast-off jokes from the comedians on the stage, stuff that wasn’t good enough to use on their radio shows; if you can stand the fake sentimentality and the platitudes of the officials and the mincing elocution of the glamour queens (you ought to hear them with four martinis down the hatch); if you can do all these things with grace and pleasure, and not have a wild and forsaken horror at the thought that most of these people actually take this shoddy performance seriously; and if you can then go out into the night to see half the police force of Los Angeles gathered to protect the golden ones from the mob in the free seats but not from that awful moaning sound they give out, like destiny whistling through a hollow shell; if you can do all these things and still feel next morning that the picture business is worth the attention of one single intelligent, artistic mind, then in the picture business you certainly belong, because this sort of vulgarity is part of its inevitable price.
Glancing over the program of the Awards before the show starts, one is apt to forget that this is really an actors’, directors’, and big-shot producers’ rodeo. It is for the people who make pictures (they think), not just for the people who work on them. But these gaudy characters are a kindly bunch at heart; they know that a lot of small-fry characters in minor technical jobs, such as cameramen, musicians, cutters, writers, soundmen, and the inventors of new equipment, have to be given something to amuse them and make them feel mildly elated. So the performance was formerly divided into two parts, with an intermission. On the occasion I attended, however, one of the Masters of Ceremony (I forget which—there was a steady stream of them, like bus passengers) announced that there would be no intermission this year and that they would proceed immediately to the important part of the program.
Let me repeat, the important part of the program.
Perverse fellow that I am, I found myself intrigued by the unimportant part of the program also. I found my sympathies engaged by the lesser ingredients of picture-making, some of which have been enumerated above. I was intrigued by the efficiently quick on-and-off that was given to these minnows of the picture business; by their nervous attempts via the microphone to give most of the credit for their work to some stuffed shirt in a corner office; by the fact that technical developments which may mean many millions of dollars to the industry, and may on occasion influence the whole procedure of picture-making, are just not worth explaining to the audience at all; by the casual, cavalier treatment given to film-editing and to camera work, two of the essential arts of film-making, almost and sometimes quite equal to direction, and much more important than all but the very best acting; intrigued most of all perhaps by the formal tribute which is invariably made to the importance of the writer, without whom, my dear, dear friends, nothing could be done at all, but who is for all that merely the climax of the unimportant part of the program.III
I am also intrigued by the voting. It was formerly done by all the members of all the various guilds, including the extras and bit players. Then it was realized that this gave too much voting power to rather unimportant groups, so the voting on various classes of awards was restricted to the guilds which were presumed to have some critical intelligence on the subject. Evidently this did not work either, and the next change was to have the nominating done by the specialist guilds, and the voting only by members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
It doesn’t really seem to make much difference how the voting is done. The quality of the work is still only recognized in the context of success. A superb job in a flop picture would get you nothing, a routine job in a winner will be voted in. It is against this background of success-worship that the voting is done, with the incidental music supplied by a stream of advertising in the trade papers (which even intelligent people read in Hollywood) designed to put all other pictures than those advertised out of your head at balloting time. The psychological effect is very great on minds conditioned to thinking of merit solely in terms of box office and ballyhoo. The members of the Academy live in this atmosphere, and they are enormously suggestible people, as are all workers in Hollywood. If they are contracted to studios, they are made to feel that it is a matter of group patriotism to vote for the products of their own lot. They are informally advised not to waste their votes, not to plump for something that can’t win, especially something made on another lot.
I do not feel any profound conviction, for example, as to whether The Best Years of Our Lives was even the best Hollywood motion picture of 1946. It depends on what you mean by best. It had a first-class director, some fine actors, and the most appealing sympathy gag in years. It probably had as much all-around distinction as Hollywood is presently capable of. That it had the kind of class and simple art possessed byOpen City or the stalwart and magnificent impact of Henry V only an idiot would claim. In a sense it did not have art at all. It had that kind of sentimentality which is almost but not quite humanity, and that kind of adeptness which is almost but not quite style. And it had them in large doses, which always helps.
The governing board of the Academy is at great pains to protect the honesty and the secrecy of the voting. It is done by anonymous numbered ballots, and the ballots are sent, not to any agency of the motion picture industry, but to a well-known firm of public accountants. The results, in sealed envelopes, are borne by an emissary of the firm right onto the stage of the theater where the Awards be made, and there for the first time, one at a time, they are made known. Surely precaution would go no further. No one could possibly have known in advance any of these results, not even in Hollywood where every agent learns the closely guarded secrets of the studios with no apparent trouble. If there are secrets in Hollywood, which I sometimes doubt, this voting ought to be one of them.IV
As for a deeper kind of honesty, I think it is about time for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences to use a little of it up by declaring in a forthright manner that foreign pictures are outside competition and will remain so until they face the same economic situation and the same strangling censorship that Hollywood faces. It is all very well to say how clever and artistic the French are, how true to life, what subtle actors they have, what an honest sense of the earth, what forthrightness in dealing the bawdy side of life. The French can afford these things, we cannot. To the Italians they are permitted, to us they are denied. Even the English possess a freedom we lack. How much did Brief Encounter cost? It would have cost at least a million and a half in Hollywood; in order to get that money back, and the distribution costs on top of the negative costs, it would have had to contain innumerable crowd-pleasing ingredients, the very lack of which is what makes it a good picture.
Since the Academy is not an international tribunal of film art it should stop pretending to be one. If foreign pictures have no practical chance whatsoever of winning a major award they should not be nominated. At the very beginning of the performance in 1947 a special Oscar was awarded to Laurence Olivier for Henry V, although it was among those nominated as best picture of the year. There could be no more obvious way of saying it was not going to win. A couple of minor technical awards and a couple of minor writing awards were also given to foreign pictures, but nothing that ran into important coin, just side meat. Whether these awards were deserved is beside the point, which is that they were minor awards and were intended to be minor awards, and that there was no possibility whatsoever of any foreign-made picture winning a major award.
To outsiders it might appear that something devious went on here. To those who know Hollywood, all that went on was the secure knowledge and awareness that the Oscars exist for and by Hollywood, their purpose is to maintain the supremacy of Hollywood, their standards and problems are the standards and problems of Hollywood, and their phoniness is the phoniness of Hollywood. But the Academy cannot, without appearing ridiculous, maintain a pose of internationalism by tossing a few minor baubles to the foreigners while carefully keeping all the top-drawer jewelry for itself. As a writer I resent that writing awards should be among these baubles, and as a member of the Motion Picture Academy I resent its trying to put itself in a position which its annual performance before the public shows it quite unfit to occupy.
If the actors and actresses like the silly show, and I’m not sure at all the best of them do, they at least know how to look elegant in a strong light, and how to make with the wide-eyed and oh, so humble little speeches as if they believed them. If the big producers like it, and I’m quite sure they do because it contains the only ingredients they really understand—promotion values and the additional grosses that go with them—the producers at least know what they are fighting for. But if the quiet, earnest, and slightly cynical people who really make motion pictures like it, and I’m quite sure they don’t, well, after all, it comes only once a year, and it’s no worse than a lot of the sleazy vaudeville they have to push out of the way to get their work done.
Of course that’s not quite the point either. The head of a large studio once said privately that in his candid opinion the motion picture business was 25 per cent honest business and the other 75 per cent pure conniving. He didn’t say anything about art, although he may have heard of it. But that is the real point, isn’t it?—whether these annual Awards, regardless of the grotesque ritual which accompanies them, really represent anything at all of artistic importance to the motion picture medium, anything clear and honest that remains after the lights are dimmed, the minks are put away, and the aspirin is swallowed? I don’t think they do. I think they are just theater and not even good theater. As for the personal prestige that goes with winning an Oscar, it may with luck last long enough for your agent to get your contract rewritten and your price jacked up another notch. But over the years and in the hearts of men of good will? I hardly think so.
Once upon a time a once very successful Hollywood lady decided (or was forced) to sell her lovely furnishings at auction, together with her lovely home. On the day before she moved out she was showing a party of her friends through the house for a private view. One of them noticed that the lady was using her two golden Oscars as doorstops. It seemed they were just about the right weight, and she had sort of forgotten they were gold.
Disc 1 – Blu-ray
The Grateful Dead Movie in its entirety transferred from the original 35mm film negative in High Definition and presented in: 1.78:1 widescreen aspect ratio
5.1 DTS HD Master Audio presentation of the original theatrical audio mix
DTS 5.1 audio mix, mixed from the master multitrack tapes LPCM
2.0 audio mix, mixed from the master multitrack tapes
Feature-length commentary with supervising editor Susan Crutcher and film editor John Nutt
English subtitles option on entire movie
Disc 2 – DVD
More than 95 minutes of bonus concert footage, including: —
Uncle John’s Band — Sugaree — The Other One — Spanish Jam — Mind Left Body Jam — The Other One — Scarlet Begonias — China Cat Sunflower — I Know You Rider — Dark Star — Weather Report Suite
Bonus songs transferred from the 16mm camera-original film negative
Dolby Digital 5.1 audio mix on all bonus songs, mixed from the master multitrack tapes
Dolby Digital 2.0 audio mix on all bonus songs, mixed from the master multitrack tapes
Visible Lyrics Option on all bonus songs
“A Look Back” documentary film
“Making of the Animated Sequence” documentary film
“Making of the DVD” documentary film
Television commercial for Mars Hotel album from 1974
Multicamera and multitrack audio demonstration
Extensive photo gallery of production notes, photos, film stills and other historical items from the Movie’s production
I wish the supplemental concert footage were being released in Blu-ray as well. But beggars can’t be choosers, I guess. At least the film itself should look and sound amazing! Thanks, Shout!
For anyone curious to know more about this film, here is a link to my extensive review.
I first saw The Grateful Dead movie, if not upon its initial release in 1977, then sometime soon after at midnight showings around the country. Already a Deadhead, but one who had not yet seen them live, I took every opportunity to see this film again and again. It was a staple of the midnight movie scene back in the late seventies and early eighties along with Led Zeppelin’s The Song Remains The Same, Pink Floyd’s Live At Pompeii and George Romero’s Dawn Of The Dead (no relation!).
At the time, The Grateful Dead movie was, for me, a chance to experience the scene and the music in a way heretofore unavailable to me (I was 14 years old and still a year or 2 away from seeing them live and in person). For my friends, who were not as into the Dead as I was, it was a good idea that quickly grew tiresome. Many of my friends liked the idea of music and the notion of getting high and going to a midnight concert movie more than they actually liked the music or the films themselves. Even Live At Pompeii put some of my closest friends to sleep while I sat stoned and mesmerized by the music and images parading before me. It was certainly the seeds of a separation that would become more prominent as I discovered that music, particularly that of the Grateful Dead‘s, would touch me in a way I had never before imagined possible; the music would reach deep into the inner resources of my soul and lift me to places undiscovered and unexplored. It was as close to “god” as I could ever expect to get.
For most of my friends, however, music was ultimately preferred as background noise, something to tap your foot to or hum along with, but not something to immerse oneself in, not something meant to be spiritually and physically interactive.
Lo these many years later, I found myself watching The Grateful Dead movie once again in its entirety. I had previewed clips and songs a hundred times over, but it had been ages since I committed to sitting down and taking in the whole film itself. And no more appropriate occasion than the 67th birthday (were he still with us) of lead guitarist and vocalist Jerry Garcia. The experience would prove eye-opening as I came to understand the journey that is The Grateful Dead movie. Unlike any other concert film I’ve seen previous, The Grateful Dead movie, directed by Garcia and Leon Gast (B.B. King Live In Africa, Hells Angels Forever, When We Were Kings), attempts to capture the Grateful Dead concert scene from every viewpoint. Certainly from the audience’s perspective, but also from the band’s perspective; setting up, rehearsing, performing, taking breaks, traveling. Even the Grateful Dead road crew, who would set up and break down the Dead’s enormous sound system (the infamous Wall Of Sound), are shown getting silly and doing nitrous backstage when their backbreaking work was done, were as much part of the experience as the musicians themselves and the film includes them as equal members.
In addition to following the band both backstage and onstage, the filmmakers also lovingly follow the audience in an attempt to recreate and capture the entire experience: lining up outside days in advance to get the best seats, wandering around the halls once inside, waiting for the band to take to the stage, the many journeys and experiences that would take place during intermission, conversations, opinions, drugs, laughter, arguments. Even the guy who sells the pizza and hot dogs.
All of this, in addition to its concert footage (which is spectacular), creates a thrilling document of time and place, an experience unlike any other, that helped sustain the popular phrase “There is nothing like a Grateful Dead concert.” The Grateful Dead movie leaves no doubt that truer a statement has never been made. It is also a demystifying experience, laying bare the band members, their audience, and even the filmmakers themselves.
Though not released until 1977, the film was shot in October 1974 at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. The Grateful Dead performed five concerts that were all filmed on 16mm. It was a significant point in time both for the band and its audience. Cultural shifts were on their way and the scene would soon change. The band themselves were on the heels of beginning a year-and-a-half long hiatus from touring. This was also the end of the Grateful Dead’s Wall of Sound, aptly named for its sheer size and presence, that was the Grateful Dead’s sound system throughout 1974.
Envisioned by master sound man and LSD chemist Owsley “Bear” Stanley, the Wall Of Sound was unlike anything seen before. As Stanley himself described it:
“The Wall of Sound is the name some people gave to a super powerful, extremely accurate PA system that I designed and supervised the building of in 1973 for the Grateful Dead. It was a massive wall of speaker arrays set behind the musicians, which they themselves controlled without a front of house mixer. It did not need any delay towers to reach a distance of half a mile from the stage without degradation.”
Needless to say (but I’ll say it anyway) the sound in this film is extraordinary. It has to be. And the DVD offers a newer 5.1 mix that is crisp and clear and places you dead smack in the Winterland Ballroom as if you truly were there in body as well as spirit. The film’s original theatrical mix is also included on the DVD and this is important as Garcia had very specific ideas about how he wanted the film to sound in a movie theater. Being that a movie theater and a living room are two very different environments (though that gap is quickly closing), the two mixes allow you to choose the particular type of sonic experience you would like to have. Widescreen Review’s comments on the two soundtracks is not far off the mark:
The original mix is created with a live, reverberant feel, more typical of what you would hear in the cheap seats, while the new mix gives you a front row seat, with good ambient effects in the surrounds, and solid dimensionality in the front stage.
One of the most satisfying elements of The Grateful Dead movie are the stories within the story. “Characters” that appear earlier in the film, like one audience member reciting a poem about the Dead in the cavernous Winterland halls, is later seen dancing on stage. Or one guy who claims to be doing work on Bob Weir’s house and is surprised to find his name NOT on the guest list, later gets in and is seen, shirt unbuttoned, eyes closed, as he dances hypnotized to the spacey rhythm’s of one of the Dead’s more exploratory jams. It should be noted here that this was a period in time when the stage itself was as alive as the audience; friends, family, fans, men and women twirling, young children dancing, and the band itself playing their hearts out, part of something larger. But this particular element of the scene was nearing an end. Audiences would start to change as the culture around the band shifted. Soon, the stage would be off-limits to most and even the front row was set back from the stage itself, as is the way now in most arenas and concert halls, separating audience from band even more. Gone are the days of lying your hands on the stage mere inches away from Jerry or Bob or Phil as they cast their musical spell. Thankfully, once the lights went down, the music itself transcended barriers and found its way to the audience which had come to be absorbed by it.
The camerawork in the film is also extraordinary. Shot by a crew of seven including documentarian Albert Maysles (Montery Pop, Gimme Shelter, Grey Gardens), the footage is extremely and unusually intimate. The extreme close-ups of band and audience faces draw the viewer in in a way most concert films never allow. Extreme tight shots of Garcia’s fingers at work reveal a level of improvisational intimacy that speaks directly to the music and its relationship to both band and audience. Drummer Bill Kreuztman’s commentary on how drumming, in its best moments, is more akin to dancing than anything else, is vividly on display as the camera moves in close, capturing the intimate nature and relationships of these men and women to the music they’re playing and the instruments that appear more extensions of their bodies than manufactured pieces of equipment.
As for the audience, the camera lovingly follows the various incarnations and interpretations of the music as witnessed and experienced through the unique body language of each participant. It is the very essence of the word intimate. This part of the experience dominates the second half of the film which, as the journey must do, finally takes the viewer deep into the most personal recesses of the music itself. Experimental and frightening, beautiful and sombre, The Grateful Dead movie now asks its audience to submerse themselves ever deeper. Spacey and jazzy and delicate all at the same time, the music and images travel to a place outside of time and space. For the average movie-goer or someone who simply does not like the music of the Grateful Dead, this portion of the film may seem a bore. But for those with a true sense of exploration, this is both the most challenging and most rewarding part of the film. It is, for me, my favorite segment. Here is where I get to live and relive the experience of disappearing into the music itself, of giving myself over to its pull and allowing my mind and body to embrace something primal within, that place where consciousness and movement converge into one to create an almost meditative state that speaks directly to the soul. It is, ultimately, the innate power of the Grateful Dead and the creative energy and flow they so often tapped into. And like the film itself, it’s a group experience with all participants along for the ride.
In the words of the film’s editor, Susan Crutcher:
“At that time, I was learning a great deal about music and musicianship. It’s reflective in the choices that I made, meaning how long I stayed with something and when I cut away. I was really glad that I did stay with a camera, allowing it to reveal something to us, the audience…
“Sometimes, it would be really transcendent just seeing what the seven camera people would do. Sometimes, there was this serendipitous moment where they’d all do the same thing — like they’d all go to the mirrored ball. I’m sure some of them had been dosed, but it was really beautiful. I think the camera work on the film is extraordinary…
“I wanted to represent it and all the beautiful changes in it. Like in jazz, there were these moments where we change from one tempo to another, where we change from one mood to another, and I absolutely wanted to preserve those moments because I think they are so indicatively Grateful Dead.”
Donna Jean Godchaux, Grateful Dead vocalist and the band’s only female member, put the whole film into perfect context:
“I think we always meant for it to be a document of what it was like to be at a Grateful Dead concert. I think it’s a beautiful poem to where the band was and where the fans were at that time. I think that’s the soul of the film, and I think what we were really going for.”
And for those who are considering whether or not to buy or rent the DVD, the second disc in this collection contains, among other things, 90 minutes worth of concert footage not found in the film itself. This is an extraordinary compilation of music and an amazing addition to the film. For my money, the performances contained in these 90 glorious minutes outshine anything in the film. The music is tight and the band on fire. Everything from Dark Star to The Other One is on display here. And the jam between Chinacat Sunflower and I Know You Rider may be one of the greatest moments ever captured on film of the band creating that “energy bubble”; when all the elements come together just right and the real magic happens; that intangible but gloriously real moment when all the different sounds converge and the intricacies and complexities of the music disappear into one single hair-raising vibration. It’s that seemingly elusive moment when an uncontrollable smile spreads across your face and you know, without question, that the world is, indeed, a very special place.
Here is a piece of the long and windy road that is the Grateful Dead’s Playing In The Band. It is the perfect melding of the improvisational nature of the music and the intimate nature of the film itself. Enjoy.
Addendum: The Grateful Dead Movie is now also available on Blu-ray with a stunning transfer off the original negative and lossless sound for the film itself. The second disc is not Blu-ray, but identical to the second disc in the original DVD set.