Patrick Fugit stars as a 70s teenager with journalistic ambitions who undertakes a campaign for employment that conceals his minor status, landing him a job at Rolling Stone magazine and a months long embedding with a band on the rise, Stillwater.
Based on events in the life of the movie's producer (+ Ian Bryce), director and writer, Cameron Crowe who'd go on to win the Oscar for original screenplay, this critic felt misled by Cam, the early frames creating an expectation of watching a gifted youngster evolve into a professional scribe. What we get instead is a movie about a child who is atypically polite but typically conveys no special talent for, or interest in, writing, a skill that supposedly got him the prized gig in the first place. You'll see no creative struggles, no epiphanies, just this constant boyish grim on his cherub face as he forever grips a tape recorder that he nearly never uses until the closing scene when he asks the band's befuddled star (Crudup), "What do you love about music?" Oy vey.
This movie is really a Studio showcase of the film's two biggest names in Frances McDormand (Mrs Miller) and Kate Hudson as #1 groupie, "Penny Lane," using the director's unique story only as a means to get us all a backstage pass. But their performances are as pedestrian as the kid's query, mom relying on the telephone as a means of parenting, periodically pitching anger to quell her conscience, while it seems everybody's love interest Lane never has her breakthrough moment, including the drug overdose made unwatchable with a wholly inappropriate overlay of Stevie Wonder's signature My Cherie Amour. Two hours is too long to follow around a fifteen year old who uses his media credential to become a fan-boy and fall in love. Mister Crowe may've written that magazine cover piece, but we didn't see it in the movie, William more interested in the glamour and groupies than meeting his deadline, no more believable as a writer than that son of a glove-maker in Stratford on Avon (Shakspeare).
Believable are the support in Fairuza Balk (Sapphire), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Bangs) and the band on the burgeon. Sapphire is #2 groupie and the film's sage, her by chance phone chat with mom the best scene to that point, her late monologue in the commissary exactly what the aspiring writer SHOULD'VE been saying ("to truly love some silly little piece of music"). The band (Crudup Lee Fedevich Kozelek) and their quest for fame, each member trying to find their place in it, and that hairy scary plane ride, are the meat of the movie. And Mr Hoffman as William's cynical mentor is terrific as always (Capote Boogie-Nights), his instructions terribly interesting, though, wrong on two points: 1) whether you're "friends" or not with the musicians is of no concern (gotta stay on speaking terms), as long as you MEET YOUR DEADLINE, and 2) writers are not "at home" because they're "uncool," they're at home because they WANT to be at home, compelled to do what they love and never finding enough time in the day to do it.
Lacks the magic of Tootsie and Boogie-Nights, the two best films on the entertainment biz since A-Star-Is-Born (37), as well as their memorable scores, the latter's on par with compilation greats in Easy-Rider, American-Graffiti & GoodFellas. But Almost-Famous does have a certain something that, along with the believables, made me go the distance, which fairly makes it almost interesting (2.5/4).
Based on events in the life of the movie's producer (+ Ian Bryce), director and writer, Cameron Crowe who'd go on to win the Oscar for original screenplay, this critic felt misled by Cam, the early frames creating an expectation of watching a gifted youngster evolve into a professional scribe. What we get instead is a movie about a child who is atypically polite but typically conveys no special talent for, or interest in, writing, a skill that supposedly got him the prized gig in the first place. You'll see no creative struggles, no epiphanies, just this constant boyish grim on his cherub face as he forever grips a tape recorder that he nearly never uses until the closing scene when he asks the band's befuddled star (Crudup), "What do you love about music?" Oy vey.
This movie is really a Studio showcase of the film's two biggest names in Frances McDormand (Mrs Miller) and Kate Hudson as #1 groupie, "Penny Lane," using the director's unique story only as a means to get us all a backstage pass. But their performances are as pedestrian as the kid's query, mom relying on the telephone as a means of parenting, periodically pitching anger to quell her conscience, while it seems everybody's love interest Lane never has her breakthrough moment, including the drug overdose made unwatchable with a wholly inappropriate overlay of Stevie Wonder's signature My Cherie Amour. Two hours is too long to follow around a fifteen year old who uses his media credential to become a fan-boy and fall in love. Mister Crowe may've written that magazine cover piece, but we didn't see it in the movie, William more interested in the glamour and groupies than meeting his deadline, no more believable as a writer than that son of a glove-maker in Stratford on Avon (Shakspeare).
Believable are the support in Fairuza Balk (Sapphire), Philip Seymour Hoffman (Bangs) and the band on the burgeon. Sapphire is #2 groupie and the film's sage, her by chance phone chat with mom the best scene to that point, her late monologue in the commissary exactly what the aspiring writer SHOULD'VE been saying ("to truly love some silly little piece of music"). The band (Crudup Lee Fedevich Kozelek) and their quest for fame, each member trying to find their place in it, and that hairy scary plane ride, are the meat of the movie. And Mr Hoffman as William's cynical mentor is terrific as always (Capote Boogie-Nights), his instructions terribly interesting, though, wrong on two points: 1) whether you're "friends" or not with the musicians is of no concern (gotta stay on speaking terms), as long as you MEET YOUR DEADLINE, and 2) writers are not "at home" because they're "uncool," they're at home because they WANT to be at home, compelled to do what they love and never finding enough time in the day to do it.
Lacks the magic of Tootsie and Boogie-Nights, the two best films on the entertainment biz since A-Star-Is-Born (37), as well as their memorable scores, the latter's on par with compilation greats in Easy-Rider, American-Graffiti & GoodFellas. But Almost-Famous does have a certain something that, along with the believables, made me go the distance, which fairly makes it almost interesting (2.5/4).