Truth Or Illusion? Seven Different Biopics

There's a line in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? in which the alcoholic, game-playing Martha spits this doozy at her barb-swapping, history professor husband: "Truth or illusion, George; you don't know the difference." According to Martha, such ineptitude is his weakness (a shared weakness, but also a buffer), but, since part of their lives is built on a questionable history (the baby? George's story with his parents?), I think she's on to something pertaining to the general human condition, especially the human condition on-screen: What is the difference exactly? And how should we process or perceive such truths or illusions? And maybe the blending makes one even more honest about their lives.

This is where the biopic, a genre that tells stories of real people, can be messy. Always a problematic genre, pressured by running times, whitewashing or the tedium of by-the-book generalities, biopics frequently become stale exercises in a series of facts. Or half-truths. Which is why any tweaking of the biopic is exciting. The most recent example, Todd Haynes' ambitious Bob Dylan study I'm Not There, in which six different actors took on the Dylan persona, was thrillingly unique. And Jake Kasdan's goofy hit-and-miss Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, a comedy poking fun at all those Oscar bait, "real" musical stories (Ray, Walk the Line) should have made for a nice satirical diversion from so-called truth.

So with that in mind, I'm looking at seven refreshingly off-kilter biopics, movies that approached their real-life subjects without the usual "and then this happened" turning of the page. For these movies, sometimes not knowing truth or illusion is part of the point -- and more true to life than anything else.

Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942)

There are moments in Michael Curtiz's Yankee Doodle Dandy that are so shamelessly patriotic, the chipper biopic lauding Broadway legend George M. Cohan becomes almost freakishly surreal. Indeed, so all-American was the picture that, released not long after the attack on Pearl Harbor, it reportedly served as a great morale booster as the United States entered World War II. And how could it not? "You're a Grand Old Flag," "Over There," and its signature tune, "Yankee Doodle Dandy," were such wartime classics that some forget that the lovable "Give My Regards to Broadway" was one of the picture's most famous songs. The musical biopic (an interesting subgenre that includes movies ranging from Mervyn LeRoy's entertaining Gypsy to Ken Russell's gloriously insane Lisztomania) starred an inspired James Cagney as song and dance man Cohan, who begins his story as an oldster, ready for his comeback Broadway hit and gaining acceptance from none other than President Roosevelt himself. Using flashbacks to tell the story (some of it true, some not), we watch Cohan's rise to fame and prominence all the way to receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor. Yes, Cohan achieved a lot. And, yes, he was quite cocky, which in Cagney's able hands (and feet) is played to glorious, almost dizzying perfection. It also plays as a terrific double feature with another bizarre, all-American story, Patton.

Napoleon (1927)

So visionary, so experimental, so richly complex, so long is Abel Gance's silent epic Napoleon that attempting to write briefly about one of cinema's first biopics feels like an undertaking in itself. There's so much to tell with both its dazzling, innovative cinematic techniques -- from handheld camerawork, sometimes strapped to horses, to superimposed images, to the use of split screen, to the inspiration for CinemaScope, to its editing style and its revision-heavy production history (the picture has gone through a series of restorations since its initial release supervised by film historian Kevin Brownlow) -- that the picture remains radical, even today. Though the story itself is somewhat straightforward (the fascinating life and times of Napoleon Bonaparte from childhood to French Revolution and on), Gance's ambitious, almost raving embrace of the medium is so incredibly stunning that many believe the filmmaker aligned himself with the grandiloquence and determinism of his subject -- a "Man of Destiny." Though Gance has been accused of falsities regarding the French emperor and taken to task by some for showing Napoleon, gleefully, as something of a fascist, the picture remains one of cinema's most exceptionally unique and breathtaking biopics.

The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser (1975)

Werner Herzog's approach to "the truth" has always been a fascinating one and I love his grand yet entirely down-to-earth theories about "reality." A firm believer in what he calls "ecstatic truth," Herzog claims that his approach toward filmmaking, whether in his documentaries (like Little Dieter Needs to Fly or Grizzly Man) or biographical pictures (like Aguirre: The Wrath of God or Fitzcarraldo) reveals "something deeply inherent, where you recognize yourself as a human being again, where you find images that have been dormant inside of you for so many years and all of a sudden it becomes visible and understandable for you -- you read the world differently, your perceptions change." For Herzog, truth is not something relegated to one genre of film, as the filmmaker freely admits to even writing dialogue for some of his documentary figures, while famously undertaking mammoth real-life tasks in making fiction or biographical features (like really dragging a boat over a mountain for Fitzcarraldo -- no CGI necessary, thank you). One of Herzog's most fascinating examples of "ecstatic truth" is The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser, a picture that won the German director the Grand Jury Award at the 1975 Cannes Film Festival and helped establish his reputation as a cinematic innovator. It stars non-actor Bruno S. as the real-life Kaspar Hauser, a boy/man who is forced to contend with civilization after living 17 years of his life in a cellar, isolated from humans, his only contact being a mysterious "Man in Black." Watching Kaspar adapt and grow is an intriguing, moving process, but Herzog's haunting, non-simplistic approach to a person's identity marks the picture uniquely like its title -- enigmatic.

American Splendor (2003)

The life of underground artist Harvey Pekar could not have been told, well, normally. Not that the man is weird, he's actually quite sane -- he's just a lot more honest than most people about the injustices and indignities of day-to-day life. Or how annoying food allergies can be. Mixing fiction with documentary and, in some more inspired moments, the real-life Pekar with actor Paul Giamatti (who's so perfect you can't think of anyone else aping Pekar -- even if he looks nothing like the man), directors Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini allow American Splendor an honest, complex kind of messiness that reflects the tumultuous life Pekar more than likely continues to lead. An acolyte of Robert Crumb, the jazz-loving, lonely Pekar, a file clerk in Cleveland's VA hospital, discusses his neo-Dostoyevskian underground man existence in comic-book form via the ironically titled American Splendor. This brings him to fellow neurotic Joyce Brabner (Hope Davis), with whom he is married and raises a child. And then there's the cancer. Steering clear of disease-of-the-week, triumph-over-adversity pabulum, American Splendor manages to tell the story of an American eccentric without making him cutely quirky or everyone's favorite curmudgeon, but rather as a truly interesting person. Imagine that.

The Elephant Man (1980)

How often does a movie like Eraserhead (you know the story...about a mutant baby ... and a lot more) lead to a filmmaker's first shot at mainstream success? And a mainstream success that respects the director's unique, evocative style? Not often. But then there's no other filmmaker like David Lynch, whose work remains (as they say) in a class by itself, even within the usually standard genre of the biopic. The Elephant Man might be one of Lynch's most accessible films, but it's still a challenging work that's so artistically interesting that it manages to meld its aesthetic vision with the inner complexities of its protagonist's moving, almost unbearably sad story. Telling the true story of John Merrick (John Hurt), a man suffering from a disease that left him so physically deformed he was sold to the circus and paraded as a sideshow freak for most of his life, Lynch crafts a picture of heartbreaking sympathy. But he never panders to the man, giving him the dignity he deserved while, importantly, making viewers face their own feelings about the character's supposed grotesqueries. In one of the most gorgeously photographed (by cinematographer Freddie Francis) biopics ever made, Lynch allows viewers to understand the real beauty of Merrick, both on the inside and, yes, the outside. The famed line "I am not an animal" might be quoted ad nauseam, but Merrick's desire to feel like a "human being," a "man," never loses its power.

All That Jazz (1979)

So nakedly honest and gloriously ballsy was, my favoritie, Bob Fosse's ambitious, over-the-top, ingeniously meta auto-biopic All That Jazz, one actually wonders if the man really summoned his own death by crafting such a creation. Imagining his slip into the sweet hereafter as an elaborate musical number set to the tricked out tune of the Everly Brothers' "Bye Bye Love" (for Fosse it's "Bye Bye Life"), Fosse's alter ego, Joe Gideon (a brilliant Roy Scheider), has not only talked to death (in the beautifully creepy angelic form of Jessica Lange) but also overtly flirted with her -- and even she's not immune to his charms. Famed choreographer, writer and director Fosse mused on his relationship with show -- from his past days as a young hoofer, to his tumultuous marriages and affairs, to his work on stage and in the movies (the film has Gideon laboring over a picture he's made about a stand-up comic, clearly referencing his biopic Lenny) to his drug use, Fosse's direction is brave, vain and morbid all at once, and so brilliant you won't know whether to smile or cry at that famously insane end number. I'm sure Fosse wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Oh Mr. Fosse, why did you have to go so early?

Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould (1993)

Part documentary, part biopic, part music lesson, part enigmatic character study, Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould remains one of the most fascinating portraits of a musical genius ever created. Directed by François Girard (and scripted by Girard and Don McKellar), the picture eschews typical biopic trappings by, quite literally, telling the musical prodigy story of Gould (played brilliantly by Colm Feore) in 32 short films -- fascinating vignettes that wander through the eccentric Canadian pianist's life with reverence, mystery, amusement and a touch of sadness that (like real life) is never resolved. You're only charmed and intrigued by the man even more. Some of the pieces run less than 60 seconds, others several minutes, but each is subtly told, allowing an inside look into Gould's background, process, intellectualism and his unique relationship with music -- something he quit performing live at age 32 because, "I just don't like the sound of piano music very much."

Every film is a standout, with highlights including Gould enjoying the unexpected (for him anyway, though he loved her) musical pleasure of pop songstress Petula Clark, a beautiful trip through the wires and hammers of his Steinway during the moment of his last concert, and discussions with those who chatted up the reclusive man on the telephone (Gould loved the phone). Thirty Two Short Films About Glenn Gould is a triumph in that not only do you learn a few things about the man himself but you also truly feel his deep alliance (and combativeness) with music. And you'll never want to hear Bach's "Goldberg Variations" played by anyone else. As you shouldn't.

From my Twisted Biopics story at MSN Movies.

Comments

[Sean O'Hara]

I have a soft spot for They Died with Their Boots On -- you gotta love a biopic that paints Custer as a noble soldier who died to protect the Indians from wicked capitalists.

[Pete Bogs]

it's not exactly the same time of film you're talking about here, but I watched Midnight Express recently... based on true events, but I've come to find out there was a lot more fiction in there than I'd realized... sometimes pieces of a person's life experiences make a compelling story, and others pieces don't... so they leave out the pieces that don't, or change them for dramatic purposes... I suppose that's ok, as long as the film states it is "based on a true story," and doesn't masquerade as the real truth...

[motown missile]

Couldn't agree more about Glenn Gould...seeing this film made me go out and buy some CDs of his music, which I still listen to frequently. Seeing Ed Wood was quite the opposite experience...after viewing Plan 9 From Outer Space, I've never had the desire to see another Wood film. Got plenty of Lugosi films on DVD, however. And the Ed Wood biopic was terrific, just didn't care for the actual Woodian product. Must not be much of a film buff.