Yesterday afternoon I went to the movies for the movies for
the first time in years. The feature that, at long last, lured me out of my apartment
on a weekend was Eat the Question: FrankZappa in His Own Words, a documentary by Thorsten Schütte. (Leave it to a European
― in this case, a German ― to remind Americans of their own musical heritage. It
took a Dutchman, Frank Scheffer, to film Elliott Carter. )
The film consists of snippets of TV interviews Zappa gave
over the years, interspersed with performance footage, presented more or less
in chronological order. There is no narration, no subtitles identifying the
interviewers or band members. Viewers are left to navigate the timeline on their
own ― you can estimate when a scene was shot by the personnel, the repertoire,
and the length and color of Frank’s hair ― and it seemed to me that the more
you bring to the film, the more you’ll get out of it. I wondered if anyone who
had never heard of Zappa would have any idea what was going on, but then, anyone
who had never heard of Zappa would never pay the ten-dollar admission price.
Frank says at the top of the film that an interview is an
unnatural situation ― “two steps removed from the Inquisition,” as he puts it ―
and what we get here is very much the public Zappa, who was, in many ways, an
admirable, if paradoxical, figure: One minute, he's inveighing against an educational system that leaves children unprepared to make informed aesthetic judgments. The next, he's singing about anal sex.
(The private Zappa, as we are learning from his daughter
Moon, was not such a bastion of integrity. For one thing, he was an open, serial
adulterer who once gave his wife the clap. In the film, he has a few things to
say about groupies, as well as the clap, but his wife and children are never shown
on camera.)
Over the years, interviewers are constantly struggling to reconcile
Zappa’s outrageousness with what they call his “serious” side, though he
insists he approaches all of his music seriously. A piffle like “Valley Girl”
and long-form compositions with the London Symphony Orchestra, he says, both
present problems in musical form. In an early interview, we see him in his studio,
editing a score with a razor blade, and talking about his ambition to become the
missing link between Varese, Stravinsky and Webern. (Carter attempted much the same
synthesis, with more success.) Years later (as indicated by the hair), he
defines his aesthetic, a favorite word, as “anything, anywhere, anytime, for no
reason at all.” His music, he says, embraces all styles. It contains both complex
and simple rhythms, both dissonances and triads ― an openness that puts him
more in the tradition of Charles Ives, if Ives can be said to belong to a
tradition.
The portrait that finally emerges, almost incidentally, from the nonstop polemics is of a man who loved music for its own sake, and I think Schütte deliberately chose the last shot in the film to reinforce the point. Frank, grizzled, dying of cancer, stands lighted against the darkness and, with concise, weak strokes, conducts an unseen percussion ensemble in “Ionisation” by his beloved Edgard Varese. His eyes are closed. For the only time in the film, perhaps the only time in his life, he looks to be on the verge of tears. He didn’t believe in heaven, and neither do I, but here he is as close to it as he ever expected to come.
Music is the best.
Note: The title of this post was overheard in line at the
box office at the Ritz Theater. The words were spoken by the white-haired woman standing
in front of me. She was in the company of a man who, downstairs at the
concession stand, asked for a pair of headphones so he could hear the movie better. What starker reminder of the passage of time? Zappa has been dead for more
than 20 years, his first album was released 50 years ago this month, and the
youth who rebelled in the ’60s are now collecting Social Security.