Velvet Goldmine (1998) - by J. Molotov

This seemed to be a contemptuous look at the “lifestyle” aspect of Glam Rock. With a pale facsimile of the glorious music of Iggy and Bowie, it took the focus off the wonder that they created with their artistry, and attributed all fascination onto their sex. From the incomprehensible storybook Oscar Wilde tale at the beginning to the anticlimactic revelation of Slade’s new identity at the end, runs the tenuous thread of the green broach. What does it symbolize? It seems to be more of a Freak Flag than an amulet of any sort of artistic power, especially since it ends up in the hands of our young hack journalist.

The film painted the Bowie character, Brian Slade, with both the selfish drive of a rising star and an ambivalent ennui, robbing his betrayals of both manager and wife of any purpose. I wished it had the cutthroat drama of Mick Jagger’s reputed drowning of Brian Jones to wrest total control of the Stones, a mystery which continues to rivet me to this day, but instead it only made me feel mildly disgusted. Slade’s only allegiance was attached to Curt Wild, the Iggy character that looked disturbingly like Kurt Cobain. The highlight of the movie came when we first saw Wild, in a pyromanical frenzy during a performance with his band, The Rats. I figured that this was the scene that made my friend recommend the movie to me. We have the same conversation over and over, where I tell him I think Ewan McGregor is incredibly charming and he takes that to mean that I want to sleep with him. Then he asks, “Have you ever seen Velvet Goldmine?” Now that I’ve seen it, I am intrigued by what my friend thinks that I will think is sexy. Ewan in the rest of the movie? Not so much. Ewan in this scene? Yes, because I love mania.

The most difficult part of the movie was Christian Bale’s tortured, closeted journalist who shamefully revels in the flamboyance of his idols. Again, he seems less moved by the music itself than the risqué album covers. There is the overwraught marbles-in-the-mouth working class accent that Bale affects, with about as much subtlety as his schizophrenic rasping-Darth Vader–Batman voice. I don’t understand how Bale, an actor who can so convincingly immerse himself in his roles, can’t avoid these histrionic voices. 

The film degenerates at about the same rate as the character’s careers, ultimately arriving at a dubious answer to the mystery of what became of Brian Slade. Oh, of course, he changed his face and became a pop star and no one realizes it’s him because it’s a different actor. But Bale’s got the scoop, he’s plugged in ever since he inexplicably had sex with Curt Wild. I suppose this is some sort of commentary on the persona Bowie adopted in the 80s after the Ziggy Stardust thing was over, but why does this film think it is not ok for an artist to evolve? Surely Bowie has never become the plastic pop icon that they paint him as becoming in this movie. He’s been the Goblin King from the get-go, and he has been ruling our entire world without our knowing it from Day One. This film doesn’t give him enough respect and I disliked the tawdry tone it chose to adopt.