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His newest film, Kurt and Courtney, is a brilliant addition to his fascinating repertoire. Effectively incomplete and understandably one-sided, Broomfield's documentary about the bizarre relationship between Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain is a provocative tale, and one that Courtney does not want you to see. Initially, Broomfield supposed that, like the subjects of his previous films, Courtney could turn out to be a sympathetic protagonist. She turns out to be something else entirely. No one who claims to like her would talk to Broomfield, so he winds up with a picture about a psychopathic, self-centered, violent bully--and (almost) nothing else. Looking for Courtney supporters, Broomfield told WW, was like searching for "some rare creature on some high mountain cliff that I could never find." What he does find are interesting creatures: Courtney's ex-lover Rozz Rezabek, a musician, who brings humor to the proceedings; a nanny who was clearly traumatized by her employment in the Cobain/Love household ("she was always bringing up the will," she says); private investigator Tom Grant, who was originally hired by Courtney but now believes that she had Cobain snuffed; "El Duce," the bizarre leader of an aggressively stupid and terrifying band called The Mentors, who claims to have been offered $50,000 to kill Kurt (El Duce was hit by a train and killed before the film's release); and, even weirder, Courtney's own father, Hank Harrison, who also believes the conspiracy theories and yells at the camera, "I've got your number, Courtney!" This is all in our backyard. Though foreign to these parts, Broomfield does the Northwest almost better than David Lynch did in Twin Peaks. Courtney is Laura Palmer, and heroin is Bob. That makes Broomfield Special Agent Dale Cooper: a charming and unflappable out-of-towner walking through the dangerous Northwest underbelly. Broomfield captures the depressive pall that can hang over these parts through simple techniques such as shooting the entrance into Aberdeen, Wash., Cobain's hometown, from the perspective of his car. Broomfield's subjects have typical Northwestern traits: living in musty basements, suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder, abusing drugs. But with a clear eye for what is funny, sympathetic and creepy, Broomfield ferrets out truths that are as revelatory as they are mysterious. He orchestrates a divine dark comedy that he himself participates in. Broomfield's self-involvement and British charm disturbs documentary purists who believe truth is told only through narration and boring, detailed maps. Broomfield is continuing a sub-genre of documentaries created by artists, not educators. Like Errol Morris, Ross McElwee, Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, Broomfield has his name stamped on every frame. Don't ask if his films contain credible testimonies; in terms of provoking thought, anyone with an illuminating take is "credible." But by involving himself in the process, Broomfield is being more honest than the standard documentarian: It is helpful to see how the question is asked before showing the response. The responses occur naturally as the film proceeds. Security is called, lawyers are thrown around, funders back out, people run scared. The film evolves within itself and becomes a film about censorship. Broomfield portrays the hypocrisy of Courtney--who so vehemently believes in free speech, who doles out awards at American Civil Liberties Union galas, who reads Camille Paglia, who expresses her grrl power by writing "whore" on her legs. She worships Elia Kazan's 1956 film Baby Doll so much, she developed a fashion style and named a band after it. Perhaps she likes Kazan's film too much; with her arsenal of publicists, lawyers, agents and managers, Courtney has done to Kurt and Courtney exactly what was done to Baby Doll: banned it. So here is the question for the clearly bright Courtney: Shouldn't you, the great American success story who cultivated the goddess-bitch-I'm-on-the-verge-of-puking-take-care-of-me-but-if-you-don't-I-can-take-care-of- myself-cause-I-rock schtick, love this movie? Even the new, improved Courtney--who doesn't trip around in moldy Miss Havisham gowns, shoot up, or have the same nose--should secretly laud Broomfield's portrait. This is fabulous Hollywood Babylon. This is Paul Bern shooting himself for Jean Harlow; this is Fatty Arbuckle raping Virginia Rappe; this is Lana Turner's daughter stabbing Johnny Stompanato to death. This is Courtney's favorite actress, Frances Farmer, listing her occupation as "cocksucker" upon being arrested. But Courtney is no Frances Farmer. She isn't sensitive to the imprisonment of fame (Kurt was). Courtney is Joan Crawford. With her efforts of suppression, Courtney is, in her way, yelling the same legendary remark that Crawford yelled at those Pepsi executives: "Don't fuck with me, fellas!" But Broomfield doesn't need to fuck with Courtney. He gets the best of her by not getting her, and by not buckling under pressure. Shouldn't Courtney be proud of him?
Oh Well, Whatever, Nevermind Kurt and Courtney director Nick Broomfield fumbles his shot at documentarian nirvana.
In the most telling scene of the ridiculously controversial pseudo-documentary Kurt and Courtney, director Nick Broomfield admits that he hasn't a clue where any of his anecdotal evidence is leading him. Neither does the viewer. The British filmmaker scours the West Coast, interviews anyone with loose ties to the celebrity couple, and provides assorted nannies, ex-lovers, estranged relatives and shameless poseurs with a soap box from which to rant and/or pontificate about Kurt Cobain's suicide and whether or not Courtney Love had any role in her husband's death. Shot in a semi-linear narrative, Kurt and Courtney offers few revelations and no proof. Broomfield's brazen style is, as in his other films, the story itself. Where he previously took on pop-culture curiosities such as serial killer Aileen Wuornos and Hollywood madam Heidi Fleiss, this time he injects himself into one of the most tragic episodes of the '90s. It's painfully obvious that he's in it for the sensationalism rather than to determine whether there's any credence to the conspiracy theories about Cobain's demise, and that's downright sad. Love's behavior in the weeks leading up to Cobain's 1994 suicide--and, since then, the ways she's handled her careers as lead singer in Hole, movie star, plastic-surgery patient and fashion model--suggest that she's a manipulative and perhaps plotting woman with enough problems to keep a team of Swiss psychologists busy for months. Broomfield doesn't use this to his advantage, instead zipping from city to city--sometimes losing track of where he is, unless Seattle has a street that's identical to Southeast Belmont--in an attempt to find subjects as scatterbrained and untrustworthy as himself. His haphazard interviewing techniques may be funny in the context of fringe figures like Fleiss, but the Nirvana frontman was a serious and massively influential figure in music and deserves better than this cheap, dour, reproachable attempt to capitalize on his success as an artist. In attempting to frame Love, Broomfield calls most frequently on the least believable source on all things Courtney--her alienated father, Hank Harrison. Had the director made a connection between Harrison's irascibility and Love's nature as a control freak, Kurt and Courtney could have achieved something more lasting than a "Banned at Sundance" tag and a few dozen letters from lawyers. In the end, this film's sole accomplishment is blurring the line between who's more despicable--Courtney or Broomfield himself. --Richard Martin |
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