Bobby goes onto a tiny stage, clutching a simple acoustic guitar in his hands — his word alone can bring a crowd of 100,000 to ecstasy or plunge them into ringing silence. Art gives artists power over millions, but only as long as they meet their demanding expectations.
Young Dylan had never sought this kind of power. When he got to the dank and thrilled New York of the 1960s, he planned to visit idol Woody Guthrie and show the world a couple of successful songs. However, while most dreamers are waiting for Llewyn Davis, the boy's contract with Columbia Records has fallen on his head.
It was much easier to make a newcomer without strict convictions into a folk music icon than from recognized stars of the protest movement. The Vietnam War, the fear of nuclear war, and racial segregation made art anxious, but labels didn't want to lose profits by missing out on a pristine corner of show business. The logical solution turned out to be to push onto the stage a young man who had not had time to harden himself in the heat of Hell's Kitchen.
But Dylan instantly fell into the heart of the popular rebellion, surrounded by folk singers who turned music into a mouthpiece for protest. His early gift as a writer took him to Olympus, from where everyone could hear a fragile and creaky voice. Unwittingly, the guy who only dreamed of music became a prophet for an entire generation.
James Mangold's biopic “Walk the Line” was about Johnny Cash's struggle with himself. Meanwhile, his new picture “A Complete Unknown” — no longer an internal, but a public battle between art and popularity. Any author dreams of being heard, but recognition often becomes a stumbling block on the way to self-realization.
Everything is easy for the main character — fan admiration, love and lucrative contracts. Festivals sell out all tickets, even if baby Bobby only plays a couple of songs, and newspapers are filled with praises. But being an idol is tiring, and young talent is eager for new heights.
His distant dream is rock and roll, fashionable and loud, lively and rebellious, not at all like thoughtful and moss-covered folk music. The same magical sound that instantly lights up the hall, flying out of the guitar into the insole of drunk Johnny Cash. Without thinking twice, Bob Dylan picks up an electric guitar and voluntarily wears Judas' robes.
An artist's strength lies in his ability to influence the masses, but his weakness lies in his inability to turn off the path paved by the crowd. People remember directors, musicians and artists for their unique style, departing from which is seen as a betrayal. Times are changing, but the same fate that has haunted Claude Monet, Neil Young and Martin Scorsese in different eras has caught up with Dylan.
James Mangold shows the eternally young folk legend as a lonely and pathetic figure in the midst of a crowd of fans. Both spectators and comrades are hidden behind the dazzling spotlights. The intense silence, the whistling air and the convulsive flickering of lamps — no one wants to give the author the right to express himself. And his true friends are ready to disrupt the concert as soon as he gets out of their control.
Unable to find support from his relatives, colleagues, or fans, the musician finds himself tumbleweed in the midst of a downpour of criticism. A generation for whom his music has become their only outlet during oppressive times cannot tolerate guitar riffs that drown out much-desired rhymes of support.
Paradoxically, confined to a hospital bed and mumbling nonsense, Woody Guthrie is much freer than Dylan, because the public no longer has demands on him. And the man who gave the world Masters of War at the height of the Caribbean crisis seems doomed to meet others' expectations endlessly. His songs reflect reality so clearly that without them people are lost in the darkness of an era.
The louder the amplifiers buzz, the more you can hear the silence in the main character's soul. The rock'n'roll buzz highlights an inner pause — a doubt without which neither growth nor change are possible. It is this brief moment that strangely makes the musician related to anyone who has ever changed course in the midst of a storm of life and knows the value of doubt and the next step.
It is impossible to find the right in this conflict. The social contract of art is immutable: an artist pays for the love of fans by confirming their hopes. Once the voice goes down, the fans are left without support, like a ship without a lighthouse. But put out the lights of fame and the singer himself will lose his strength. Thus, the tension between creative freedom and the fetters of popularity turns into an eternal cycle.
“A Complete Unknown” smells like cigarette smoke, vibrates the copper of the strings, and trembles with fear of the future. In an age of senseless wars and social splits, even yesterday's allies are taking up arms against each other. But the film proves a simple truth: as soon as the clanging of the fetters subsides and the thaw sets in, forgiveness, music and an insatiable thirst for change inevitably take the place of horror.
