Late Fame hits select theaters in New York on August 7, and Los Angeles on August 14, with additional cities to follow.
By I. Simon
There’s a famous Quentin Tarantino quote: “You don’t have to know how to make a movie. If you truly love cinema with all your heart and with enough passion, you can’t help but make a good movie.” But if anyone makes for a strong refutation to Tarantino’s point, that would be Kent Jones. Justifiably regarded as one of the best film critics bar none, Jones has transitioned from director of the New York Film Festival to feature filmmaking within the past decade, making his debut with Diane, a flimsy, glorified after-school special somewhat elevated by a terrific Mary Kay Place.
Jones has followed that up with Late Fame, which doubles as a portrait of aging and memory, and something of a farcical depiction of NYU art students, making for at least a more intriguing work on paper than his debut. The problem is that the script, penned by Samy Burch — known for previously writing the Todd Haynes-helmed masterpiece May December, and penning the screenplay for the upcoming Coyote vs. Acme, a film that would almost never see the light of day because of David Zaslav’s inexplicable decision to narrowly bin it for a tax write-off — doesn’t go far enough with either of them, instead making light jabs at these art students that ring toothless, and any glimpses of interiority that Ed Saxberger is afforded are entirely due to Willem Dafoe — one of our greatest and most reliable actors, and though this is a far cry from his most memorable work, he’s more than comfortable in the role — rather than anything on the page or in the filmmaking choices. And after a certain point, the members of the art group, with the exception of Gloria (Greta Lee, an actress I do not care for and find especially grating here), feel like a complete afterthought.
But unfortunately, though his direction of actors has generally improved from Diane, Jones’ formalism is once again lacking here, with the editing in particular being bafflingly amateurish. Scenes dissolve randomly and jarringly without any breathing room, and though the charitable explanation would be that the erratic editing choices are in line with the exploration of memory, given that this same woefully handled cutting was present in Diane — and by the same editor to boot — I’m not buying it.
Like with Diane, I suspect Late Fame will have some passionate if subdued defenders, whether due to Jones’ background in film criticism (and, of course, as director of the NYFF) or because they may actually see genuine value in the two films he’s made. But for someone who clearly has such an extensive knowledge of the medium, I can’t help but be quite flabbergasted by the clumsiness of both of his films. Hopefully, he will eventually find his way.
I give Late Fame a C.
