This past weekend. We’d gotten two and a half appealing invitations, but begged off everything, opting to “let’s get lost,” Chet Baker style.
Let's get lost, lost in each other's arms
Let's get lost, let them send out alarms
And though they'll think us rather rude
Let's tell the world we're in that crazy mood
This plan produced one helluva romantic weekend of big, wet monkeylove, but by Sunday evening, I think the beau wished we’d gone to a cookout or two, so’s I’d stop singing and/or playing the Chet Baker song. (That “repeat one” function really isn’t meant for when company’s over.)
Cut to last night. 6:30. We’re sitting around in our undiepants, perusing take-out menus. The beau remembers a movie review he’d read in the Voice. Finds his copy and reads it to me. Then grouses ‘cause he really wanted to stay home. Again. But he shouldn’t’ve read that review to me.
By 8:30 we were showered, clothed, popcorned, and nestled into our seats at Film Forum to see Let’s Get Lost, a 1988 Bruce Weber documentary on the life, music, and steep demise of Jazz singer/trumpeter Chet Baker.
Unseen for 14 years, this newly restored print is drippingly lush in high-contrast black and white, with an infrared film glow and meticulous attention to light and shadow. The visuals could stand alone. The performances could stand alone. The camera-hungry superfluous satellite characters and unlikely staged scenes with curious cameos by Chris Isaak and Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers) are unfortunate, but once the smack and the interviews start flowing, your heart snaps in a hundred different places.
Included are many of his women and children, and his mother, her familial facial structure upholstered with wrinkles so deep and starkly lit, they appear to be the clearly marked chapters of a sad biography. After lightheartedly listing her son’s impressive musical achievements as a child, she’s asked, despite the trumpet and voice, was he still a disappointment as a son. The folds beneath her eyes tighten as she considers the unexpected question. A breathless silence precedes a heartbreaking answer.
Other show-stoppers include a plea for a disrespectful audience to pipe down for a best-ever take on Elvis Costello’s “Almost Blue,” and a Weber query near the end of the film, asking Baker what his favorite kind of high is. The wide openness of the question would surely lead one to sum up their life and loves. The joy of that perfect sustained note. The blissful pleasure of a woman’s love. The returned smile of one’s child. Baker’s answer? Speedball.
Let's get lost, lost in each other's arms
Let's get lost, let them send out alarms
And though they'll think us rather rude
Let's tell the world we're in that crazy mood
This plan produced one helluva romantic weekend of big, wet monkeylove, but by Sunday evening, I think the beau wished we’d gone to a cookout or two, so’s I’d stop singing and/or playing the Chet Baker song. (That “repeat one” function really isn’t meant for when company’s over.)
Cut to last night. 6:30. We’re sitting around in our undiepants, perusing take-out menus. The beau remembers a movie review he’d read in the Voice. Finds his copy and reads it to me. Then grouses ‘cause he really wanted to stay home. Again. But he shouldn’t’ve read that review to me.
By 8:30 we were showered, clothed, popcorned, and nestled into our seats at Film Forum to see Let’s Get Lost, a 1988 Bruce Weber documentary on the life, music, and steep demise of Jazz singer/trumpeter Chet Baker.
Unseen for 14 years, this newly restored print is drippingly lush in high-contrast black and white, with an infrared film glow and meticulous attention to light and shadow. The visuals could stand alone. The performances could stand alone. The camera-hungry superfluous satellite characters and unlikely staged scenes with curious cameos by Chris Isaak and Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers) are unfortunate, but once the smack and the interviews start flowing, your heart snaps in a hundred different places.
Included are many of his women and children, and his mother, her familial facial structure upholstered with wrinkles so deep and starkly lit, they appear to be the clearly marked chapters of a sad biography. After lightheartedly listing her son’s impressive musical achievements as a child, she’s asked, despite the trumpet and voice, was he still a disappointment as a son. The folds beneath her eyes tighten as she considers the unexpected question. A breathless silence precedes a heartbreaking answer.
Other show-stoppers include a plea for a disrespectful audience to pipe down for a best-ever take on Elvis Costello’s “Almost Blue,” and a Weber query near the end of the film, asking Baker what his favorite kind of high is. The wide openness of the question would surely lead one to sum up their life and loves. The joy of that perfect sustained note. The blissful pleasure of a woman’s love. The returned smile of one’s child. Baker’s answer? Speedball.
Never has a life so grim been so stunningly rendered. Runs through June 28th at Film Forum. Watch the trailer, listen to a Weber interview, and buy tickets here.
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