Watched Masked & Anonymous tonight, the 2003 Bob Dylan movie starring, well, everybody. And it's fantastic.
But then again, the deck is stacked when you discuss Dylan with me, as there is no way I can approach the man impartially, though not for the reason you're thinking of. I mean, sure, I'm named after the guy and was brought up listening to everything from "Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues" to "Spanish Harlem Incident" to "Idiot Wind." And I'm sure that has something to do with my appreciation for his work; it certainly doesn't hurt. But my love for the man is from a more unexpected source.
See, there are a few things, a few watershed moments in my life that, well, that screwed me up beyond repair. The first was a childhood obsession with Star Wars and comic books, but it progressed to discovering the Beatniks and Kerouac, Kurt Vonnegut, Woody Allen, Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49, Philip K. Dick, Grant Morrison and Jack Kirby. But sitting in the middle of this, between the Fantastic Four and The Dharma Bums, holding court with midgets and cops and million other washed-up old criminals sits Tarantula, a mess of a book that changed my life. It quite literally blew my 15 year old mind.
Wait, no. Not literally, I guess, as my mind was not literally exploded. It just felt like it. "It figuratively blew my mind"? Yeah, that's the one. Doesn't sound as impressive though, does it?
So yeah, Bob Dylan has a soft spot in the cluttered ruins of my heart, so if I say things like "Masked & Anonymous is a great pre-apocalyptic fable full of sly social commentary, heavy symbolism and an incredible cast," or "It's I'm Not There's evil, inbred twin," you'll have to bear with me, it's just the hyperbole speaking. When I say stuff like "It's like David Lynch directing a script by Philip K. Dick and Woody Guthrie" or "It's resonant, heavy, ridiculous and highly recommended," or "Hey, Cheech is in it," just know that I can't help myself.
I yam what I yam.