'A Complete Unknown': A Believable Rock Film Biography

The Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown, directed by James Mangold, captures Dylan's rapid rise to fame during the 1960s folk movement with a nuance and authenticity seldom seen in rock film biographies.

The film begins in 1961, with Dylan’s arrival in New York City as an eager young singer hoping to meet his idol, Woody Guthrie, who is hospitalised due to Huntington's disease—a condition that causes progressive deterioration in physical and cognitive functions. Dylan does meet Guthrie, and the story concludes with his polarising 1965 Newport Folk Festival performance. The film ends on a poignant note with Dylan’s touching, dialogue-free farewell to Guthrie.

Timothée Chalamet’s portrayal of Dylan is a revelation, and he captures his distinctive vocal intonations and idiosyncratic body movements and hand mannerisms with uncanny precision—especially once Dylan is preparing to “go electric” and becomes “hip”. Chalamet’s Dylan singing voice is also accurate, capturing Dylan’s phrasing and vocal quirks. I have never seen a performance by an actor playing a famous person before that has made me forget that they are not that person in actuality—Chalamet achieves this.

Equally impressive is Monica Barbaro, who portrays Joan Baez, a significant person in Dylan’s life and career during this period. While she physically doesn’t look like Baez, she captures her speaking voice and, to a great extent, her singing voice also.

Another notable performance is Edward Norton’s as Pete Seeger. Though not as tall in stature as Seeger was, he captures his sing-song-like speaking voice, and his warmth, integrity, humility and charm. His portrayal adds depth to the story, particularly in scenes where Seeger’s frustrations with Dylan’s evolving musical style come to the fore. It is refreshing to see Norton in such a role, as he has often played complex, morally ambiguous or unlikable characters in the past.

Another good performance is given by Elle Fanning, who plays Sylvie Russo, based on Dylan’s real-life girlfriend during this period, Suze Rotolo. While her portrayal is persuasive, I couldn’t help but wonder why the character wasn’t directly named Suze Rotolo. It’s a minor issue, but one worth noting.

The only performance that felt slightly misaligned, due solely to a script shortcoming, was Dan Fogler’s portrayal of Albert Grossman. For me, the role was underwritten, as if the director were marginalising Grossman’s pivotal role in Dylan’s career.

All in all, I was pleasantly surprised, as I was expecting the film, like most rock film biographies, to lack authenticity or fail to capture the Zeitgeist of the period they are set in.

My only complaint is that it left out a whole chunk of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village. There was no mention of Dave Van Ronk or the other folk venue performers and friends he had there. For me, the most interesting part of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village was precisely his involvement and interactions with the other folk-singers there.

Connotation, Denotation and the Complexity of Poetry: A Response to George Szirtes

It’s not often I find myself quoted, but when I came across George Szirtes’ 2007 Stanza Lecture, I was flattered and taken aback to find my views on connotation and denotation in poetry cited. At the time, I argued that there isn’t really such a thing as "difficult" poetry, only poetry that either connotes or denotes. In my view, the former tends to be seen as difficult, while the latter is often considered easier to engage with. I used The Waste Land as a prime example of connotative poetry—arguably more complex and harder to penetrate than a Simon Armitage poem, which I suggested is more denotative.

Szirtes, however, took issue with my distinction between connotation and denotation, suggesting that both processes are not mutually exclusive but rather simultaneous in any speech, let alone poetry. Here is my full quote:

'I don’t think there is such a thing as difficult poetry, only poetry that connotes or denotes. The former is always considered difficult by opponents of it. The Waste Land is more connotative than a Simon Armitage poem, for instance, that is why The Waste Land is seen as difficult.'

Here is Szirtes' response to it:

'I am not sure how this writer can draw a sharp distinction between connotation and denotation in any speech, let alone poetry. Connoting and denoting are simultaneous processes.'

While I respect his intellectual rigour, I still maintain that the distinction I drew between connotation and denotation is not only valid but necessary to understanding the nature of poetry. Semantically and cognitively, I agree that both processes can occur at the same time, but in the context of poetry, their creative usage modifies the balance Szirtes mentions. If connotation and denotation were always functioning in the same way, then literary criticism, as we know it, would not be as contentious or layered as it is. The tension between connotation and denotation is precisely what fuels much of the interpretation, discussion and critique of poetry.

This is why The Waste Land is a monumental work. It isn’t just a collection of images or a narrative that can be easily interpreted; it’s a network of connotative meanings, layered and intertwined, inviting the reader to feel as much as understand. 

Poetry that connotes and resonates deeply is not necessarily poetry that is "difficult". It's poetry that engages us in the fullness of our emotional and intellectual lives. It’s poetry that invites us to feel, think and inhabit the spaces between words and meanings. And for that, we need connotation just as much as we need denotation.

Layered Meaning or Fleeting Impressions? The Case of Frank O’Hara

Frank O’Hara’s poetry has always left me uncertain about its merits. I’ve given his work a try and ultimately found that its casualness and prosaicness, while often praised as clever or subversive, lack the transformative depth I associate with poetry. For me, O’Hara’s work feels like prose arranged into lines, lacking key poetic elements such as ambiguity, symbolism and metaphor. But this is, of course, a subjective view, and I realise that his appeal lies elsewhere for many readers. Let’s explore these missing elements in the context of O’Hara’s work.

A hallmark of poetry, as I see it, is its ability to suggest layers of meaning, inviting readers to engage in interpretation. O’Hara’s poems, though, are straightforward and journalistic. For instance, ‘The Day Lady Died’ recounts O’Hara’s emotional response to Billie Holiday’s death. Its opening lines, filled with mundane details of his day, is more like a diary entry than a poem designed to evoke multiple interpretations:

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don’t know the people who will feed me

Some might argue that the stark specificity and cataloguing of errands reflect the fragmented, distracted state of grief, and that these plain details accumulate emotional weight. But for me, the poem doesn’t seem to invite further engagement beyond its surface narrative. 

Also, his poetry lacks transformative qualities. Rather than elevating mundane moments into something transcendent—an ambition Wordsworth attempted, though arguably without success—O’Hara doesn’t even make the attempt, if he was aware of such a possibility. In contrast, his poetry seems uninterested in this kind of transformation. For instance, in 'Having a Coke with You', a love poem that celebrates intimacy through straightforward, conversational language, O’Hara remains firmly grounded in the literal.

  I look

at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits

      in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and

      anyway it’s in the Frick

which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go

      together for the first time

For admirers of O’Hara, this unadorned honesty is (probably) precisely the point—why dress up emotion in metaphor when you can express it directly, they might ask? Yet compared to poets like Wallace Stevens or Sylvia Plath, who mingle dense symbolic frameworks with metaphor into their work, O’Hara’s style feels limited in scope. The simplicity of his language, while charming to some, leaves little for readers who enjoy creating individualised meanings from poems.

I appreciate that much of O’Hara’s appeal lies in the personal nature of his work. He records fleeting moments of his life with a conversational intimacy that feels confessional. But unlike T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, which uses personal experience as a lens for exploring universal themes of despair and renewal, O’Hara’s poems seem content to remain on the surface of individual experience.

Critics of this perspective might argue that O’Hara’s personal focus is itself a reflection of his era. As a central figure of the New York School, his work aligns with a broader cultural movement that celebrated the everyday and rejected the “self-serious” ambitions of modernism. In this sense, his lack of universal themes could be seen as a deliberate rejection of poetic pretension. But this interpretation risks overstating the intent behind his simplicity; rather than rejecting pretension, O’Hara’s work often feels content to remain in the realm of fleeting impressions, offering immediacy at the expense of the layered richness that sustains deeper engagement.

If O’Hara’s poetry doesn’t fit traditional expectations, what is it? Perhaps it’s best understood as textual reportage, capturing fleeting moments of urban life with wit and immediacy. In this sense, O’Hara is akin to a literary Andy Warhol: both artists elevate the mundane and present it without pretence. O’Hara’s work also evokes the sharp wit and conversational charm of Truman Capote. While his poetry might lack the depth that draws me to other poets, it remains of interest for its immediacy, humour and charm.

From Folk Ballads to Dylan and Cohen

The evolution of song lyrics from simple folk ballads to complex poetic forms, is one of the most significant transformations in the history of popular music. Songwriters like Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen were instrumental in transplanting pre-1935 poetic ambiguity into the songwriting form, and, thus, reimagining lyrics as a serious art form. This introduction of lyrical ambiguity to songs has not only expanded the expressive potential of music but has also filled a void that modern mainstream and some avant-garde poetry, perhaps paradoxically, has failed to maintain.

Historically, song lyrics served as communal stories or refrains, intended for accessibility and for easy memorisation. Folk ballads, for instance, utilised repetitive structures and unambiguous language to convey themes of love, loss or societal injustice. Songs like ‘Barbara Allen’ or ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ are timeless thematically, but they are nevertheless unambiguous, focusing on narrative rather than interpretive introspection. Their impact lay in their thematic universality, using unambiguous language that could resonate broadly within the oral tradition.

However, the late 20th century saw a significant shift with the rise of the singer-songwriter “movement”. Dylan and Cohen’s work especially exemplifies this shift, as they introduced themes and structures more usually encountered in text-based poetry. Dylan’s lyrics, influenced by the Symbolists, Jack Kerouac's poetry and some of Allen Ginsberg’s “word chain runs” in Howl, enabled him to infuse into the song form surrealist landscapes and ambiguous narratives that moved beyond direct narrative structures. Songs like ‘Visions of Johanna’ and ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ rely heavily on metaphor, symbolism and an obscurity that invites listeners to interpret meaning.

Cohen, also, did similarly, imbuing his lyrics with spiritual and existential undertones, as seen in songs like ‘Suzanne’, ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ and ‘Night Comes On, the latter of which I have written about elsewhere. Unlike Dylan, he does this with an economy of words, that is more akin to “formal” poetic norms than Dylan’s lyrics are. Yet both writers achieve peak ambiguity via their respective approaches. The ambiguity in their lyrics, and their refusal to convey explicit messages, introduced a new dimension into the song form.

In many ways, this ambiguity reflects the qualities of pre-1935 poetry, which often specialised in open-ended meaning and interpretive possibilities. Poets like T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas exemplified this approach in their work, leaving readers with a sense of mystery and with numerous possibilities for the interpretation of their works. Eliot’s The Waste Land is an obvious example of this, and is dense with symbolic imagery and fragmented voices, where meaning is not predominantly explicit, but rather suggested in flashes of insight after reader-engagement with the text. Similarly, Dylan Thomas’ 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' expresses themes of defiance and transcendence in the face of death through a sophisticated and mainly ambiguous form. His repeated use of the line 'and death shall have no dominion' evokes a strong emotional response, but he leaves it to the reader to explore the full range of its meanings.

Since 2005, I’ve argued that poetry’s shift toward precision and explicitness after 1935 left it less accessible to mystery and symbolic depth. The result has been that contemporary poetry, mainly mainstream and popular poetry (and even some avant-garde poetry in recent decades), has largely avoided the kind of ambiguity that Dylan, Cohen, Thomas and Eliot embraced.

It must be emphasised, that Dylan and Cohen are not isolated in this poetic approach to music, and dozens of artists since them have carried this aspect forwards to varying extents, including: Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, Neil Young, David Byrne, Tori Amos, Patti Smith, Beck, Lana Del Rey and dozens more; including bands like The Grateful Dead, The band, The Rolling Stones etc.

The impact of this development has been profound. Music has become a medium where ambiguity is not only tolerated but celebrated; where listeners are encouraged to engage in the same interpretive acts once largely reserved for poetic texts. Unlike much contemporary poetry, which tends towards precision and explicitness, song lyrics remain a laboratory for ambiguous expression. Dylan and Cohen helped to make this possible by expanding what lyrics could achieve. 

The ambiguities in song lyrics allow listeners to find resonance and meaning without dictating any singular interpretation, which is why songs have replaced poetry as a culturally significant art form.

Is John Ashbery Overrated?

John Ashbery occupies a complex position within the avant-garde tradition. While he is celebrated for his “innovative” style and layered themes, in actuality he might not embody after all the true spirit of avant-garde poetry. Instead, he risks being seen as a sort of "wannabe" (for want of a kinder word), creating a chasm between his reputation and the core principles of the “movement”.

While his work is frequently praised for its complexity, this complexity often lacks genuine originality and innovation. His poems weave together threads of thought and imagery that seem like pastiches of avant-garde influences. Whether this is intentional, though, has yet to be comprehensively established.

While his use of language to deconstruct meaning, along with his surrealist influences, is what made his poems noticeable when he first appeared, this doesn’t mean that he was doing anything particularly innovative historically. The poetic milieu he was operating within was very conservative poetically, and so naturally he would be seen as novel within that context.

And his reliance on disjointed imagery and non-linear narratives echoes elements and trends from earlier poetic movements, and even those of late-1960s psychedelic rock song lyrics. Instead of breaking new ground, his approach can be seen as a rehashing of ideas that have been explored by numerous other poets and artists. Even when his poems render consciousness or employ tonal modulation, the question remains whether they constitute a decisive formal advance in avant-garde terms.

And while his appropriation of, for instance, the "derangement of meaning" aesthetic was novel for late 1950s American poetry, a case could be made that the Beats were doing this before him.

Ashbery's association with the New York School places him within a specific cultural context that celebrates experimentation, but this affiliation can create a facade that obscures any actual contributions to the avant-garde tradition. At one time he was compared to T. S. Eliot as a marketing strategy, yet Eliot grappled with profound philosophical and emotional questions, pushing the boundaries of poetry in ways that challenged readers to confront meaning. In contrast, Ashbery’s work often seems like an exercise in style over language, prioritising a surface-level complexity that lacks the transformative engagement with language and texts that avant-garde poetry is supposed to embody.

The New York School, with all its cultural idiosyncrasies, certainly added its own flavour to the poetry scene, and Ashbery’s personal and cultural context gave him a particular lens. However, this doesn’t make him immune to critique or exempt from being held up against the broader standards of avant-garde exploration. It's one thing to mix different influences; it's another to argue convincingly that those influences have been used in a way that pushes the form or content of poetry in genuinely new directions. That's the point I’m making: Ashbery's work often seems more like an echo of past movements than a real departure from them. This is not to deny that his work can subtly capture consciousness or tone, but such achievements, while notable, do not necessarily establish vanguard status.

Also, within this complex framework, can be found passages that lack the intricate layering often associated with his reputation. For example, his poem ‘The Picture of Little J. A. in a Prospect of Flowers’ juxtaposes sensory imagery with abstract reflection:

Yet I cannot escape the picture

Of my small self in that bank of flowers:

My head among the blazing phlox

Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.

I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,

As though the rolled-up future might stink

As loud as stood the sick moment

The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,

Still, as the loveliest feelings

This sort of straightforward nostalgia is remarkably similar to Wordsworth’s approach to language. I discuss this in my article ‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood’. While Ashbery might achieve a modulation or reflective rendering of consciousness here, the structural patterns still resemble inherited discursiveness rather than decisive formal rupture.

While Ashbery’s contributions to the field are acknowledged, his legacy deserves re-evaluation within the context of the avant-garde movement that critics claim it represents. His "style" has led to his celebration as a literary giant, yet it has rendered his work as derivative.

This critique doesn’t stem from a desire to limit poetry to predefined notions of what it should be (I’ve written many articles defending a reader-response approach to poetry), but rather to question how Ashbery’s work fits within the broader context of the avant-garde tradition. The avant-garde, historically, has often been about radical, innovative engagement with language and form, but also about pushing boundaries in ways that challenge not just craft, but also how readers engage emotionally and intellectually with the world.

I must emphasise, that I am not suggesting that the avant-garde was ever a monolithic aesthetic unity; that would be a gross oversimplification. What I am pointing out is that Ashbery is often celebrated as embodying a kind of avant-garde ideal, yet I question whether his work truly pushes the boundaries in the ways typically associated with that tradition. And while his post-surrealist tendencies can produce subtle modulation or phenomenological effect, these do not necessarily equate to meaningful innovation in the historical vanguard sense.

In this light, one might argue that John Ashbery, while celebrated, is ultimately overrated and perhaps not as authentic an avant-garde poet as is claimed, even when allowing for the subtler forms of achievement his work undeniably demonstrates.

Wombwell Rainbow Interview: Poets and Writers' Writing Approaches and Methods

I was interviewed for The Wombwell Rainbow a few years ago. The interview was part of a series of interviews with poets and writers about their approaches to and methods of writing. My thank to Paul Brookes for inviting me to take part. You can find it here:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/24/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-jeffrey-side/