A Complete Unknown (2024)
Directed by James Mangold
by Giampiero Frasca
Biopics that manage to break free from a rigid, formulaic structure are rare. So much so that, regardless of the subject, the story being told always seems to follow the same pattern. This applies to anyone, in any field. The fluidity of a life is often lost in an endless mechanical (or even messianic) cycle of rise, unexpected pause, and ultimate resurrection—or, in more tragic narratives, a spectacular downfall. This is typically conveyed through episodic, anecdotal storytelling that aims for a kind of existential anthology, a collection of highlights. Fully aware of this risk, James Mangold sidesteps it by focusing on the evolution of a single fragment, implicitly linking his approach to Todd Haynes’s multifaceted and shape-shifting depiction of Dylan in I’m Not There. In doing so, he both contradicts and anticipates it, tracing things back to the roots—when Dylan was still an unknown figure in the making.
Mr. Dylan arrives in town at the beginning of A Complete Unknown. It’s 1961, and the folk scene is thriving, fueled by the towering presence of its guiding spirit, Woody Guthrie. Guthrie, the voice of the Great Depression, remains a foundational figure, but in a world on the brink of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the JFK assassination, and the fight for the Civil Rights Act, he can no longer serve as a perfect reflection of a rapidly changing reality. A new form of expression is needed—one that people can identify with and use as a catalyst for action.
In the film, Sylvie Russo (Elle Fanning), Dylan’s partner and the iconic figure on the snow-covered cover of his wildly successful 1963 album The Freewheelin’, understands this. Pete Seeger (Edward Norton), on the other hand, does not. As a symbol of tradition and a charismatic presence at the Newport Folk Festival, he represents the old guard that Dylan shook to its core on July 25, 1965, when he decided his time with folk music had come to an end.
Mangold structures Dylan’s journey as a dynamic interplay between these two opposing forces—the folk purists and the pull of something new. The film follows his trajectory from his arrival on the New York scene to his recognition by folk’s elder statesmen and, through artistic exploration and tumultuous relationships, to his break with tradition. That rupture—his turn to rock—was seen as a betrayal by folk purists, a sentiment so intense it crossed the Atlantic. The infamous “Judas!” accusation, which the film places at Newport, actually took place in Manchester, England.
Mangold shapes this trajectory with a restrained style—deeply respectful of the material, classical in approach (in line with the reference to Now, Voyager and the notion of settling for familiar stars), yet far from predictable. His impact is evident in his choice of perspective, in the establishment of a precise symbolic throughline that remains a constant throughout the film, allowing it to reflect and record each shift in Dylan’s evolution.
Every scene is meticulously constructed around the trajectories of the characters’ gazes. Events unfold and take shape before eyes that, in the first half, are filled with admiration and, in the second, with growing suspicion. For Mangold, it is the act of watching that gives meaning to an action, that elevates it into something historic, almost mythological. One could go so far as to say that the film’s tensions, its revelations, and even its very essence are distilled into the reactions of those who witness Dylan’s transformation.
These reactions create a stark division in the film. The first half is a period of discovery, where Dylan’s sound and words conjure the magic of creation before the awestruck eyes of Seeger, Guthrie, and his audience. The second half sees that same magic become a conscious tool—one that brings both admiration and success but also breeds doubt, as people begin to suspect that what was once pure artistry may have turned into betrayal, self-interest, or egotism.
One of the strengths of A Complete Unknown is its ability to portray Dylan with respect while steering clear of hagiography. In fact, the film subtly critiques certain moments of ego-driven behavior—always through the eyes of those around him. “Why did you come here, what, to make me watch you?” Joan Baez (Monica Barbaro, freshly nominated for an Oscar) asks him after being woken in the middle of the night by the chords of a half-formed song.
It’s 1965, and the soft pastels that Phedon Papamichael used to paint the earlier period have given way to smoky shadows streaked with neon. Dylan, now sporting dark sunglasses—through which he claims he can “see into the soul”—undergoes a transformation into a living poetic archetype, a figure as old as Homer’s legends.
Chalamet, prosthetic nose aside, delivers a convincing Dylan—both fragile and commanding, often introspective and withdrawn into his own world. He recreates the classics with a voice that, while imitative, carries a personal tone that enriches his interpretation (which, incidentally, earned him an Oscar nomination).
The film’s final moment, when Dylan looks at Guthrie with the affectionate gaze of a son who knows he has now become the father to his own father, is a stunning pause in time. Through the film’s dual foundation—the power of perspective and the restraint of its direction—this scene captures both gratitude for tradition and the act of legitimizing its evolution. And then, speeding off on a Triumph, Dylan heads toward the future of American music.
Cineforum, January 24, 2025
