Howl directed by Bob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman.
The young Allen Ginsberg played by James Franco.
The obscenity trial over the publication of the poem. Interviews with Ginsberg. Animation to illustrate the reading of the poem. And the reading of the poem.
Movies have the power to influence. Or they can further deaden our minds. Empty calories.
Hey baby Howl is one of the good ones. About something. Someone. A time. A sea change.
Ginsberg a chronicler. A thinker. An artist. A voice. A rock and rolling jazzy symphonic changer. Attuned to his own voice.
Ginsberg a beat. Hung with Kerouac, Cassady, Burroughs. Influenced them. And thus all of us.
So right on.
Ginsberg a pioneer. Not afraid of his, you know, SEXUALITY. Got out there and told it. Not necessarily proud, but surely loud. No shame. Why should there be? The artist must know himself and at some level embrace himself.
So should you.
The trial was....................(important). Hurrah for it! Hurray for the 1950's and the Beats and Lenny Bruce and the last great decade of jazz and the first of rock and roll and the coming of hippies and their idea of peace and love.
So the right thing.
The great fight propelled by the likes of (the loves of?) Ginsberg. The fight, done with love, you dig, against militarism, commercialism, consumerism. And all those wretched isms still at it today, brother (you too sister).
So it goes.
Yeah I dug the film. Trial stuff was okay. Animation good. Franco doing Ginsberg was as this generation would say -- awesome.
The directors were at the showing and did a Q and A. Good dudes man, done some documentaries of note (note em on IMDb, friends). Urged us to urge others to see their independent low budget filmed in two weeks movie.
So I will.
This movie should be seen by those "who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury," and it should also be seen by those who "who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz" and of course by those who "who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic,
leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whisky and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam whistles." And by the rest of y'all too.