Recently, I realised that, despite being a Bob Dylan fan since 2013, I had never seen Don’t Look Back. That's right: the most famous Dylan documentary of all, which offers a behind-the-scenes look at his storied 1965 tour of England. How had I not seen this film?
Well, there are a few reasons. One is that clips from Don't Look Back turn up all over the place – Dylan playing ‘It’s All Over Now Baby Blue’ for Donovan, Dylan trying to find out who threw a glass out of his hotel window, Dylan berating Time magazine journalist Horace Judson. I almost felt as though I had seen the film, just because of how well-known these clips are. Another reason is that the 1960s are the most thoroughly documented period of Dylan’s career, which meant I always assumed that this film would simply cover what has become well-trodden ground.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Don't Look Back is fascinating on a number of levels: the images of 1960s England, the skilful direction of D.A Pennebaker, the unsettling presence of Dylan’s manager Albert Grossman floating serenely through the film like a great white shark. But the most intriguing aspect of Don’t Look Back, for me at least, is watching a young Bob Dylan come to terms with superstardom, and everything that accompanies it. This, in some ways, becomes the main dramatic thread of the whole film.
When we first meet Bob, he seems pretty happy, even as journalists crowd around him to ask questions about him and his songs. He teases them a little with a giant lightbulb, but is polite and even charming towards them. Over the course of the film, however, the tone of these interactions gradually changes, as Dylan meets fans, fellow musicians, and more journalists. Whilst well-meaning, all of these people want something from him – answers, an autograph, or maybe just that most precious commodity of all: his time. It looks exhausting, and reminded me of a comment Rolling Thunder Revue member Ronnie Blakley made in the 2019 Martin Scorsese documentary about Dylan seeking refuge from “the onslaught of strangers.”
One particularly telling moment comes when Dylan meets a group of fans, who inform him of their distaste for his recent forays into the world of electric rock ‘n’ roll.
“My friends were playing with me on that song,” Dylan replies, playfully but with a hint of terseness. “Y’know, I have to give some work to my friends. I mean, you don’t mind that, right? Huh? You don’t mind them playing with me if they play the guitar and drums and all that stuff, right?”
“It just doesn’t sound like you at all,” the fan insists. “Sounds as if you’re having a good old laugh.”
“Well, don’t you like me to have a good old laugh once in a while? Isn’t that alright with you?” Dylan is still speaking in a playful tone of voice, but you get the feeling he’s straining to remain polite.
Finally, it all comes to a head during the infamous interview with Time Magazine’s Horace Judson, where Dylan lets rip with both barrels at the unsuspecting journalist. I’ve always found this scene hard to watch – I can’t help but feel bad for Judson – but I have to admit that it makes much more sense within the context of the entire film, after Bob has had to endure an entire tour’s worth of questions and small talk coming from every direction.
An interesting counterpoint to the Judson showdown is the scene where Bob is unexpectedly invited to meet the High Sheriff’s Lady. I’ve lived in England all my life and have never heard of the apparently still-extant High Sherriff’s Association prior to watching this film - but she’s here, and has specifically requested an audience with Dylan. Bob, for his part, seems delighted to meet this very proper, very English lady, who proudly introduces him to her sons. Bob gives her a harmonica, and she says that he and Bob Neuwirth absolutely must come to stay at her mansion next time they’re in England. The whole thing is surreal, but it sticks with me because the High Sherriff’s Lady might be the only person in the film to approach Dylan without any ‘baggage’. To her, he’s not the ‘Voice of a Generation’; he’s just a nice young man who sings nice songs that he wrote by himself.
It struck me while watching this film that I think I understand why Dylan prefers touring with a band. Frankly, touring as a solo artist looks like an incredibly isolating experience. I actually found myself feeling grateful for the presence of Bob Neuwirth as Dylan’s touring companion – while Neuwirth is by most accounts a divisive figure, to say the least, he appears to be the only person in the film (along with Joan Baez, who departs fairly early on) who is actually Dylan’s friend. Once Bob is on stage, however, it’s just him facing the world alone; no one to turn to for a smile or a shared joke, no one to interact with or play off musically, no one to pat on the back at the end of a concert and say “hey man, you played really good tonight.” I guess stand-up comedians must feel like this all the time.
This post was inspired by the excellent book Like a Bullet of Light: The Films of Bob Dylan by C.P. Lee
