Pretty sad stuff here. Chet Baker, a kid from Oklahoma, learned to play the trumpet and became famous in the early 1950s, partly because of his talent and partly because of his looks. He came to wide public notice as the complement to Gerry Mulligan's baritone saxophone in the piano-less quartet of 1952-1953. The sound was contrapuntal, uncanny, and unique. There had never been anything like it, and nothing since. But the two didn't get along that well, and Baker established his own groups and began doing the vocals as well in a voice about as good as yours or mine.
By the end of the 50s Baker was on a downhill slide. A lot of his work, said to be fine, from the 1960s isn't readily available. Unfortunately what is available is Chet Baker crooning love songs and playing mood music at the slow tempos he seemed able to keep up with.
By the time of this documentary, 1988, Baker no longer looked like James Dean. His face was that of a pinched, wrinkled, Oklahoma farmer out of a Walker Evans photograph from the Great Depression.
I can't give director/photographer Bruce Weber credit for much in the way of generosity. There are too many stark, black-and-white closeups of that ruined face and stringy hair. The semi-stoned intonations of Baker's voice I attribute to increased age or current drunkenness. But the high-contrast photography is hard to forgive. Weber made his name in commercial photography. Most people probably remember his photos of half-nude young men. One of them, an ad for Calvin Klein, has a male model posed naked except for white briefs lighted in such a way that his genitalia were prominent. I don't find the picture offensive, only the motive behind it, which I take to be a desire to shock and to have one's name remembered. (Richard Avedon, a cynic if there ever was one, pulled the same trick with celebrity portraits that made the subjects seem ancient, debauched, or insane.) The same motive seems to lie behind the photography in this film, some arty shots of dogs prancing around in Santa Monica aside.
Weber let's some of the people interviewed describe Baker's charm and his innate skills on the trumpet. Jack Sheldon, a trumpeter himself and one-time sidekick on a late-night talk show, is hilarious. Baker seemed to have second sight, says Sheldon. He didn't have to think about what note he was playing, he just put his fingers on the valves. "It was easy for him to know where he was. Not like me. I forget what bar I'm in. In fact -- where are we now?" We also get an assessment from one of Baker's embittered ex girl friends who puts him down scathingly, though she evidently had reason to. Nobody ever says, "Chet Baker -- what a nice guy he was." There's quite a lot of interview footage, as a matter of fact. Weber put a lot of effort into the film. And considerable footage from the 50s as well, including an appearance by Baker on TV with Steve Allen, a host and a fellow musician. Mostly, though, what we hear on the sound track is Baker mooning along slowly and feebly through love songs and mood pieces.
See it, really, but be warned. It's gripping but it's painful too.
By the end of the 50s Baker was on a downhill slide. A lot of his work, said to be fine, from the 1960s isn't readily available. Unfortunately what is available is Chet Baker crooning love songs and playing mood music at the slow tempos he seemed able to keep up with.
By the time of this documentary, 1988, Baker no longer looked like James Dean. His face was that of a pinched, wrinkled, Oklahoma farmer out of a Walker Evans photograph from the Great Depression.
I can't give director/photographer Bruce Weber credit for much in the way of generosity. There are too many stark, black-and-white closeups of that ruined face and stringy hair. The semi-stoned intonations of Baker's voice I attribute to increased age or current drunkenness. But the high-contrast photography is hard to forgive. Weber made his name in commercial photography. Most people probably remember his photos of half-nude young men. One of them, an ad for Calvin Klein, has a male model posed naked except for white briefs lighted in such a way that his genitalia were prominent. I don't find the picture offensive, only the motive behind it, which I take to be a desire to shock and to have one's name remembered. (Richard Avedon, a cynic if there ever was one, pulled the same trick with celebrity portraits that made the subjects seem ancient, debauched, or insane.) The same motive seems to lie behind the photography in this film, some arty shots of dogs prancing around in Santa Monica aside.
Weber let's some of the people interviewed describe Baker's charm and his innate skills on the trumpet. Jack Sheldon, a trumpeter himself and one-time sidekick on a late-night talk show, is hilarious. Baker seemed to have second sight, says Sheldon. He didn't have to think about what note he was playing, he just put his fingers on the valves. "It was easy for him to know where he was. Not like me. I forget what bar I'm in. In fact -- where are we now?" We also get an assessment from one of Baker's embittered ex girl friends who puts him down scathingly, though she evidently had reason to. Nobody ever says, "Chet Baker -- what a nice guy he was." There's quite a lot of interview footage, as a matter of fact. Weber put a lot of effort into the film. And considerable footage from the 50s as well, including an appearance by Baker on TV with Steve Allen, a host and a fellow musician. Mostly, though, what we hear on the sound track is Baker mooning along slowly and feebly through love songs and mood pieces.
See it, really, but be warned. It's gripping but it's painful too.