• Don’t Look Back

7/11/25 (Fri)

DA Pennebaker’s 1967 documentary of Bob Dylan’s tour in England two years earlier is said to be a landmark in rockumentary filmmaking. (The title’s first word is actually spelled for some reason without the apostrophe, but I’m going with the real thing.) It follows the Nobel laureate and others in cars, hotel rooms, offices, the streets, and the concert stage, where he performs some of his numbers. He also plays snatches of songs backstage along with Donovan, Joan Baez (who he was dating) and others.

It’s a very curious film in that Dylan, who we would expect to be portrayed with reverence, comes off as a condescending jerk. Yes, reporters can ask stupid questions, but they’re just doing their job; he doesn’t have to be so aggressively nasty. His attack on a Time journalist is unnecessarily hostile, not to mention rambling, and his exchange with a science student (who, according to Wikipedia, later co-founded Chrysalis Records) drops to high-school level, picking up on trivial words and phrases with no attempt to engage in any real way. He seemed willfully unpleasant, petulant for its own sake. Maybe fame has already hardened him, which in itself is a lesson of some kind, though he is at least halfway decent to his fans. His denial that he’s a folk singer is interesting given his notorious turn to electrical instruments almost immediately thereafter, but given his evasions and refusal to deal honestly with the press, he has only himself to blame when they describe him to his irritation as an “anarchist”. He comes off as distrustful and cynical, and that’s understandable to an extent in a world where everyone wants something from him. But it still doesn’t make him very appealing.

It’s hard to trust much of the footage, some of which was clearly set up, most notably the negotiations between Dylan’s manager Albert Grossman and the BBC over a proposed appearance by the singer. Also, as nice as it is to hear her, Joan Baez seems to be playing to the camera in the hotel scene when she breaks into song while Dylan, totally ignoring her (as he does throughout the film), is typing away. That said, there were some spontaneous moments: the nice exchange of songs with Donovan felt genuine, and the various concert footage was a huge plus from a key time in Dylan’s career. The filmmaker intentionally did not show full song sets, presumably to keep the focus on Bob the man as opposed to Bob the entertainer. Another reason may have been what appears the singer’s boredom or disdain in his concerts, as he rushed through his sets without much evident interest. (“The Times They Are A’Changin’,” sung several times here, seems to get faster as the tour progresses.) He must enjoy singing live – he’s just announced another tour of England this month at age 84 – and his fans are rabid (they had to peel one girl off the hood of his moving car). But he is standoffish at best in these shows. It would have been interesting to see at least one song played in full.

The London scenery and people, also present in A Hard Day’s Night (which I re-watched recently) were redolent of an era that sadly no longer exists. At the same time, the droll and much-imitated opening with the cue cards tied to “Subterranean Homesick Blues”, his first hit, was obviously shot for the film and not strictly part of the documentary, while there was footage inserted from several years earlier when he was singing at a voting registration rally among black citizens in Mississippi.

For all that, the documentary was entertaining and enlightening, certainly pulling no punches. The use of the handheld camera allowed the director to remain unobtrusive and mobile, such as following the singer from the dressing room to the stage or catching his outburst when someone has thrown a glass outside. The editing seems rather rough at times, though that somehow fits Dylan’s rough-around-the-edges personality. I have to assume that the singer approved the film, so either he didn’t mind or didn’t care about showing his gruff side to the world. One nice surprise was the merciful lack of voiceovers, leaving us to piece it all together without being hit over the head with it. That’s an innovation that I wish had caught on and still feels fresh today.

By the time I saw Dylan in concert in Cologne in 1978, he had long moved on from his folk roots, so it was great to see him in his early prime, hot on the string of some of his biggest albums (and just before “Highway 91”). A unique documentary deserving of its reputation. I hope Dylan saw this, recognized his obnoxiousness, and mellowed out. But I doubt it.