Ｉ ｈｅ
Ｉ’ｍ ｈｅｒ
ｎｏｔ ｈｅｒｅ.
Ｉ’ｍ ｎｏｔ ｔｈｅｒｅ.
trying to think of some meaningful words to say,
something profound and deep,
but all I can think of is the sounds of a harmonica,
and that kill-the-fascists guitar.
the overlapping images of people talking, walking,
staring at nowhere inside my head.
all the actions are played frame by frame.
what they're sayin'?
tombstone blues, acapulco, mobile, Hattie Carroll, Billiy the Kid......
they're all pressing on......
It's hard not to like any of them,
I mean Jude, Jack/John, Woody, Arthur, Robbie and Billy.
How well they represent the portaits of Bob Dylan is not really the point.
It really isn't.
Either does it have anything to do with precision.
Seperately they are so different from each other,
and from Bob Dylan;
as if they are the extensions, the reinforcements or the descendents
from a mind that breaks into so many pieces.
Yet as one they construct such a complete whole,
with rough edges of shadows, that what Bob Dylan means.
I feel that even my tiniest notice of a slight detail
actually represents some sense of "what the storyteller wanna say".
For that, it's a brilliant piece of work.
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