Years ago, when an interviewer told Cary Grant that everyone wanted to be him, the screen icon replied, “So would I! I would love to be Cary Grant.”

The quote speaks to the bogus persona many entertainers craft for themselves, personas that are far too complex, multivalent and contradictory to possibly be anything other than elaborate masks. There often comes a time when the persona’s originator can no longer even recognize the face staring back at them in the mirror. Bob Dylan, at least the Bob Dylan(s) encapsulated in Todd Hayes wacky and wonderful I’m Not There knows exactly what Cary Grant means.

Purists beware, if you attend I’m Not There thinking you’re getting a Dylan biopic in the vein of say, Walk the Line, you will be profoundly, dazzlingly, shockingly disappointed. I’m Not There is not a biopic, at least not in any traditional sense. If you’re looking for facts and figures, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is a lyrical work of art. Don’t try figuring it out — just go along with it. I’m Not There is non-narrative stream of consciousness. It is surreal and it is absurd, and though it flirts with traditional story telling, it is an avant garde experimental poem at heart. It is a meta-interpretation rather than a factual reproduction of a man’s life.

Mining the language of 1960s cinema, I’m Not There — part Goddardian French New Wave, part Fellini’s extraordinarily influential 8 ½ — is inspired by the music and the many lives of Bob Dylan. It uses an extraordinary cast, including six different actors to portray the legendary folk crooner’s slippery chameleon egos. With each new phase of Dylan’s career, a new actor comes in to take over the role. All are impressive; one, Blanchett, is mesmerizing — more Dylan than Dylan.

The film is a cornucopian snapshot of Dylan’s dreams and experiences. We watch as he molds himself into an icon before our very eyes. We follow him as he strains to stave off the corruption that comes with publicity. We see what happens when music is co-opted by a political movement and how music serenades the implosion of a superpower. We are privileged to showdowns with the press and the wily squirmings of a man desperate not to be unmasked. We witness a man who, in the name of authenticity, can no longer locate his true self.

At times the film allows itself to take the road not traveled. What if Dylan hadn’t experienced that near fatal motorcycle crash? What if he had stayed at the church where he found Jesus and become a minister, preaching Pentecost? What if Dylan inhabited the skin of Billy the Kid? I’m Not There opens that portal.

Dylan has told so many lies about himself and his origins over the years that the truth is almost impossible to sort out from the deception. I’m Not There seizes on inconsistencies and hypocrisies and drags them into the light. Though the film is clearly in love with it’s subject, it is not beyond graceful criticism and loving censure.

Probably more interesting to the converted than the curious, I’m Not There is nevertheless a staggering, imaginative feat. It is celebrity deconstruction of the highest order. And an amalgam of some of the best music ever written.

© Copyright 2007 Brandon Fibbs. All rights reserved.