no direction home (2005)

There is this moment of pure heathen chemistry in No Direction Home where Bob Dylan is seen doing an acoustic, beautifully fluid version of “Desolation Row” on stage (“Cinderella, she seems so easy”), shot like it’s a surreal dream. Then this Martin Scorsese documentary cuts abruptly to backstage, where Bob, lightning in his pants, was badgering this Richard dude telling him about a shooting threat, or prank, from one of the audience members (no doubt pissed that Dylan’s band gone all electric). “I don’t mind being shot, but I don’t like being told about it,” Bob deadpans. That’s how I like to feel about things these days generally: directionless, unheeded, taking it each shitty day at a time. In that respect – and apologies for ignoring the historical ground the film covers – No Direction Home is heroic, very inspiring. It’s kinda neat to see old Bob, very relaxed in his cowboy pimp getup, being interviewed as he stammers along when chatting about his transition from earnest troubadour to rock shaman. The central premise of the film, and something that Scorsese captured quite admirably, is that Dylan was someone who just needed to be constantly on the move; like the only one thing he could have done wrong, is to stay in one place a day too long.