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Later, a beaming Joan Baez introduces her protégé, and together they bellow Dylan's protest ballad "With God on Our Side." (Roscoe seems even more puzzled.) Lerner cuts to a nighttime version of the Dylan-Baez duet; someone declares that this curly-haired boy "has his finger on the pulse of our generation." Dylan does a total Woody Guthrie impersonation with "Talkin' World War III Blues" and then, switching from antiwar satire to civil-rights pathos, overwhelms the crowd with the complicated phrasing, credible analysis, and palpable emotion of his Medgar Evers– inspired "Only a Pawn in Their Game." The festival ends in a paroxysm of good feeling, with Dylan fronting a half-dozen performers singing his (or rather Peter, Paul and Mary's Top 40 hit) "Blowin' in the Wind." He's serious and modest, and he upstages them all.


In 1963, Dylan was a prodigy performing for a particular coterie. A year later, he is the festival's undeniable star, confident and no longer scruffy, with a repertoire of original songs—"Mr. Tambourine Man," "All I Want to Do," "Don't Think Twice"—so good that the audience seems to shake its collective head in disbelief. Had the coffeehouses of MacDougal Street really incubated so miraculous a talent? No longer is Dylan anybody's protégé; now Baez is his straight man, particularly when they sing their increasingly lugubrious anthem "With God on Our Side."

For his final number, Dylan introduces "Chimes of Freedom," declaiming it in a controlled beatnik ecstasy. It's his most complex song to date—and his most generous ever, a Whitmanesque embrace extended to "every hung-up person in the whole wide universe." The words keep spinning and tumbling; the sense of communion is overwhelming. Dylan delights in blowing the audience's mind. The crowd can't stop applauding. In a moment no one will ever see again, after a song he will soon cease to play, Bob pops back onstage to tell the fans that he loves them.

photo: Jonathan Wenk/The Weinstein Company, 2007

As the '65 festival begins, Dylan sports a fancier guitar and a better haircut. What's more, he's wearing shades and smoking his cigarettes onstage. It's clear that he's planning to run away from home. And the songs are even better! When he sings "Love Minus Zero (No Limit)," the audience still leans forward to concentrate. Then he appears in a polka-dot shirt and leather jacket, fronting the amplified Paul Butterfield Blues Band, and blows the audience away with the declaration that he ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more. Scattered sullen boos. Dylan charges into his just-released Top 40 hit "Like a Rolling Stone." More boos.


Marcus Carl Franklin as Woody
photo: Jonathan Wenk/The Weinstein Company, 2007
In I'm Not There, Haynes envisions Newport '65 as a direct assault on the audience. The dandified Dylan and his band spray the crowd with machine-gun fire. Then, following the logic of The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, Haynes elects to "print the myth": He stages the apocryphal scene in which Pete Seeger has to be restrained from cutting the power supply with an ax. It's war!

In The Other Side of the Mirror, Dylan simply leaves the stage, but the crowd calls him back. Can't it please be the way that it was? Dylan returns alone and contemptuously sings them something they'll like: a polished, slightly rushed, and vaguely sarcastic version of "Mr. Tambourine Man." The audience begs for more. He leaves them with a hyper-enunciated rendition of "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue." End of story. Was ever a star more appreciated—or more stifled by that appreciation?


Haynes's protagonist first appears as an 11-year-old African-American (Marcus Carl Franklin) riding the rails, hobnob bing with hobos, and calling himself Woody. Singing his Dust Bowl ballads and doted on by white Southern liberals, this plucky, pint-size vagabond is a hilariously self-aggrandizing, assured, voluble, and precocious performer, even if he has to be reminded that it's 1959. He's also a tough act to follow, but the mythmaking has only just begun.

Dylan's next avatar, the diffident protest singer Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), resembles another Dylan model, Ramblin' Jack Elliott, and inhabits a pastiche of the Scorsese doc No Direction Home. Looking back on the folk scene, Julianne Moore plays a fictional Joan Baez ("Every night I would invite this ragamuffin on stage") while Jack explains why he decided to take a powder: "All they wanted from me was finger-pointin' songs." (Not that Dylan ever stopped pointing his finger; he just shifted targets. Indeed, Jack will later reappear as the born-again, gospel-singing Pastor John.)

Haynes then executes a Pirandellian pirouette, jumping to the last days of the Vietnam War. The protagonist is now Robbie (Heath Ledger), an egocentric Method actor who, after Jack Rollins's disappearance, became "the new James Dean" by impersonating the folkie icon in a biopic called Grain of Sand. Still with me? Robbie is introduced breaking up with his wife Claire. Haynes flashes back a decade to their meeting in a Greenwich Village coffeehouse. An independent artist and then the mother of Robbie's children, Claire is the relationship woman, combining aspects of Suze Rotolo and Sara Dylan and played by Charlotte Gainsbourg, herself a text as the daughter of a '60s "It" Girl, Jane Birkin, and a monstre sacré, French troubadour Serge Gainsbourg.

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