"You should build your reputation on being honest and unmerciful" -- Lester Bangs in "Almost Famous."
I'm still attempting to comprehend the significance of "Almost Famous." Is this film an examination of the desperate rock lifestyle of the early '70s?
Is it a tale of one child's precocious transition into maturity, is it an extended metaphor for the American family's ability to transcend the self-destructive influences of the rock generation or is it just a touching story of unusual friendship, hardship and redemption?
Fortunately, my confusion is irrelevant, as none of these "larger" interpretations even begin to conceal the overt shoddiness of the film.
One of the beginning scenes finds our hero, William Miller (Patrick Fugit), bemoaning his youthful appearance while in a car with his mother (Frances McDormand) and sister (Zoey Deschanel). His mother, Elaine, pulls over the car and dramatically reveals his real age -- he is two years younger than his fellow classmates.
"I am 11!" he shrieks. The mother explains to him, in belabored piecemeal, that not only did she skip him a grade, but she placed him prematurely in kindergarten as well.
This revelation was imparted to William with such an air of unapologetic solemnity that one might think he was being told that he was the Second Coming of Christ.
The wise sister quips on the emotional stunting of young William, and the mother follows up with an equally sapient commentary on how he'll have time to gain perspective when he is the youngest lawyer in the country. The scene not only lacks proper motivation but it displays an overwhelming sense of melodramatic caprice, a sense that pervades the movie.
It is impossible to define the character of Elaine. She is a liberal college professor who allows her daughter to become a stewardess, mildly commenting, "you are 19 and I cannot stop you." Yet she adamantly complains about the presence of records in the house. With little hesitation, she allows her 15-year-old son go on a tour with a rock band, yet she insists on calling every other day to frantically remind him "don't do drugs."
Before her departure, William's sister imparts the gift of her music collection to her sibling and reassures him, "one day you will be cool." William rushes upstairs to find her stash of records under his bed, so he does as any children would. He caresses each individual record cover for what seems to be an eternity while nostalgic oldies tunes creep into the background.
I felt like creeping out of the theater.
One can not help but imagine Cameron Crowe writing this script, giggling like a schoolgirl over the potential reaction of audiences and critics alike. A cute kid, sex, drugs, a great sound track, multiple close ups of the appealing cast members displaying enigmatic facial expression and the beauty of rock and roll -- minimum return of three Academy Awards.
William, now 15, aspires to be a music journalist. Through persistence and some duplicity he manages to land an assignment for Rolling Stone magazine. The band he chooses to follow, Stillwater, initially views William as "The Enemy" but grows attached to him through their travels together.
In turn, William is infatuated with everything associated with rock and roll. He finds it difficult to write critically about a group whom he considers his closest friends.
One especially telling scene occurs towards the end of the journey. The band makes it big and is being transported via airplane to a larger venue. Midway through the flight, an electrical storm threatens the craft, which begins to plummet.
Fearing for their lives, all on board apologize for their faults, a situation that quickly degenerates into a public airing of past lies and secrets. Then they all start bickering and at the height of their pettiness William speaks up, issuing an admonition that is supposed to "make you think."
For some reason the phrase "from the mouth of babes" kept coming back to me during this scene. What was intended to be insightful, dramatic and humorous comes off contrived, whiny and inappropriate.
The film attempts to pose vast theoretical conflicts regarding journalistic integrity, contrasting the perspectives of a veteran music critic (Philip Seymour Hoffman), the staff of Rolling Stone magazine and William, whose quandary is trying to differentiate friendship from journalistic fodder.
But "Almost Famous" never adequately addresses this topic, presenting basic moral dilemmas but never drawing any conclusions. The ending was pat, and the issues worked themselves out without having to make a definitive statement.
