'Almost Famous' is almost a masterpiece, presenting so authentic a re-creation of American musical culture during the 1970s that it deserves to be seen as an act of witness, not unlike the flip side to 'This Is Spinal Tap', but without the mocking satire. The film is a thinly disguised, sentimental flashback to when writer-director Cameron Crowe was a precocious teenage music journalist, coming of age while covering for Rolling Stone magazine the ups and downs of life on the road with the (here fictitious, but entirely convincing) band Sweetwater.
First-hand experience and a pitch-perfect memory put Crowe in full command of his material, but it's too bad he couldn't assert the same authority over the editing table as well. The film (like so many these days) is at least twenty minutes too long, thanks (indirectly) to Steven Spielberg, who reportedly urged Crowe to shoot every word in what must have been, for many years, an un-produced pet screenplay. The result is padded by the effort needed to gift wrap and resolve every conflict as neatly and happily as possible, contradicting the director's own message (voiced by character actor, screen chameleon Philip Seymour Hoffman as the venerable rock critic Lester Bangs) about good writing being "honest and merciless".
But never mind. The film was never meant to be too much more than textbook crowd-pleasing fluff, crafted with an affectionate eye for period detail as seen through a not inappropriate rose-colored lens. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll were never quite such wholesome fun; a distinction is even drawn between the usual clutch of groupies and much more lovable 'band aids' like Kate Hudson, whose fresh, photogenic appeal was obviously meant to charm viewers in much the same demure way that she romances Crowe's love struck young protagonist.
So why did the movie, contrary to critical expectations, fail at the box office? Maybe it was the relative lack of charisma in the lead character, an obvious analogue of the writer-director himself, portrayed in this deprecating self-portrait as too bland and unlikely a paragon of journalistic virtue. With a little more edge and depth it might have been a career-making role (think of the unknown Tom Cruise circa 'Risky Business'), but all the skills of young Patrick Fugit aren't enough to fill the featureless gap at the heart of an otherwise lively and colorful cast.
Or maybe the film was simply made a decade too late. Crowe wants us to believe, as he does, in the redemptive power of musical expression, a romantic idea fast becoming another anachronistic casualty of push-button progress. Times have changed, and now there's an entire movie-going generation with no nostalgic memory of gatefold album cover art, or the unique thrill of settling a phonograph needle into a virgin groove of freshly unwrapped vinyl.
For the sake of audio clarity and convenience (i.e. not having to get up and flip the LP over) we've lost touch with a small link to our collective adolescence. Here's a movie that tries (too late?) to remind us of how we lived back when music really mattered, before it was put on a tight corporate leash and sold, with true Pavlovian skill, as TV ad soundtrack fodder.
Maybe, to best appreciate Crowe's slice of cultural nostalgia, you just had to have been there yourself.
First-hand experience and a pitch-perfect memory put Crowe in full command of his material, but it's too bad he couldn't assert the same authority over the editing table as well. The film (like so many these days) is at least twenty minutes too long, thanks (indirectly) to Steven Spielberg, who reportedly urged Crowe to shoot every word in what must have been, for many years, an un-produced pet screenplay. The result is padded by the effort needed to gift wrap and resolve every conflict as neatly and happily as possible, contradicting the director's own message (voiced by character actor, screen chameleon Philip Seymour Hoffman as the venerable rock critic Lester Bangs) about good writing being "honest and merciless".
But never mind. The film was never meant to be too much more than textbook crowd-pleasing fluff, crafted with an affectionate eye for period detail as seen through a not inappropriate rose-colored lens. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll were never quite such wholesome fun; a distinction is even drawn between the usual clutch of groupies and much more lovable 'band aids' like Kate Hudson, whose fresh, photogenic appeal was obviously meant to charm viewers in much the same demure way that she romances Crowe's love struck young protagonist.
So why did the movie, contrary to critical expectations, fail at the box office? Maybe it was the relative lack of charisma in the lead character, an obvious analogue of the writer-director himself, portrayed in this deprecating self-portrait as too bland and unlikely a paragon of journalistic virtue. With a little more edge and depth it might have been a career-making role (think of the unknown Tom Cruise circa 'Risky Business'), but all the skills of young Patrick Fugit aren't enough to fill the featureless gap at the heart of an otherwise lively and colorful cast.
Or maybe the film was simply made a decade too late. Crowe wants us to believe, as he does, in the redemptive power of musical expression, a romantic idea fast becoming another anachronistic casualty of push-button progress. Times have changed, and now there's an entire movie-going generation with no nostalgic memory of gatefold album cover art, or the unique thrill of settling a phonograph needle into a virgin groove of freshly unwrapped vinyl.
For the sake of audio clarity and convenience (i.e. not having to get up and flip the LP over) we've lost touch with a small link to our collective adolescence. Here's a movie that tries (too late?) to remind us of how we lived back when music really mattered, before it was put on a tight corporate leash and sold, with true Pavlovian skill, as TV ad soundtrack fodder.
Maybe, to best appreciate Crowe's slice of cultural nostalgia, you just had to have been there yourself.