Pavements

13

If you are an indie rock fan between the ages of X and X, you have a relationship with Pavement. As much as one can have a relationship with an enigma. Or a generational construct. The idea of which leads us to this experimental mockumentary film that plays into the tropes and winking “genius” of every rock dorks’ favorite band. So, of course, I had to engage with it because, I, like my Gen-X brethren, am an indie rock dork and always have to namecheck Pavement as formative and important in my rock ‘n’ roll evolution. Plus, they’re from Cali. I’m from Cali… And, well, Stephen Malkmus sometimes wears button-downs, I sometimes wear button-downs. They’re white. I’m white. They own guitars, I own guitars. And, well, that’s about where that ends. Regardless, I was fascinated when I first heard about, and then saw, the trailer for Pavements. And knew that some day I’d not pay to stream it on something like Kanopy two years after it came out because I, like you can’t bother to get the theaters for anything other than Marvel movies and have no clue what Mubi is.

This is one of those films that’s almost impossible to describe. Even reading the Wikipedia synopsis, I’m wondering if that editor watched the same movie I did. It’s a self-referential, Andy Kaufmanesque origami piece that takes real life documentary footage, interviews, fake musicals that are really real musicals, fictional, non-existent movies that are never produced, b-roll interviews with the stars of said non-existent movie and wraps it all up in an actual movie called Pavements. Got it? And, honestly, this is only half of what’s going on. Because apparently there’s a whole fake love story going on that involves the filmmaker / playwrite himself, Alex Ross Perry, that I totally didn’t clock. Mostly because I don’t watch or understand musicals. But also because the real Alex Ross Perry is in the film, but he’s also played by someone who is supposed to both be him and not be him. I don’t know. It’s not like Synecdoche, New York level of weirdness, but it certainly goes out of its way to throw a lot of reality-bending, doppelgänger stuff at you. Without actually going directly at anything. Just like Pavement’s lyrics.

Taking the documentary aspect of this at face value, it’s cool to see the old Pavement footage from their early days through present. Mostly to realize these guys haven’t changed a whole lot. Malkmus has always been a guy who shies away from eye contact and kind of lives within his own head. His esoteric approach to musicality and slacker style is actually just a built-in part of a quirky personality. His reputation as standoffish, unknowable and intentionally or unintentionally combative with bandmates is just a matter of him being who he is. An easy template for press and fans to build a narrative around, or build a temple to, the man and the band they have created out of it. Which is basically where the movie sits. Pavement is what you make Pavement to be. If you are just happy to see them playing your favorite sings and being cool (in a nerdy type of way), then you have that. If you’re a man who wants to write a lovelorn musical using the music of Pavement because you feel the music itself speaks to what your heart is feeling — but also means everything to you — you can do that too. If you think a museum of Pavement junk is worthy in the same way a museum to, say, American history is a viable idea because you feel they were that critical to the fabric of a nation, you do you. Or, if you think a major biopic (entitled Range Life) dramatizing the Pavement experience starring Joe Keery as Malkmus, Jason Schwartzman as Matador’s Chris Lombardi and a bevy of others is a good idea, then you’re all bought in. But all of it is as real or fake or staged or spontaneous as you want to believe it is. Just like the genius of a band who sang about seeing your girlfriend, who was eating her fingers like it was just another meal. Brilliant!

It ultimately comes down to if you think Pavement should or shouldn’t be Tenacious D and the Tenacious D in The Pick of Destiny treatment. A film I admittedly never saw, but understand is a fictional account about a band called Tenacious D starring the real-ish band Tenacious D. Or Flight of the Conchords, which is a show I actually did see and enjoy very much. Granted, those are basically comedy troops masquerading as bands. Or perhaps, in reality, they’re musicians day-playing as comedians. Whatever the case, the concept of mixing truth and reality isn’t new, but the level of mind-fuckery here is definitely operating on a whole different level. Mainly because Pavement aren’t actors or — as far as I know — aiming to do anything other than make music together. The stupendous acting the guys do in the “Cut Your Hair” video aside. Granted, I don’t think anyone walked into either the Tenacious D or Flight of the Conchords experience expecting anything other than comedy skits set to music and whatnot. My point is that there is historical precedent for this type of amalgamated media. But I’m not sure anyone has taken it quite to this level. I think the idea here is that we, as the viewers, are supposed to be a little confused and/or left guessing what is scripted and what is genuine. For example, there is Malkmus in his literal Rainman outfit with his giant oversized novelty scissors cutting the ribbon to open the Museum of Pavement in Tribeca and failing over and over again to cut through the tape. It’s absurd. Not to mention the attendees at the museum opening scanning some real and some clearly fake ephemera set up like some sort of weirdo fawning retrospective. Are they there as extras in a film and in on the joke? Or do they think that Apple and Got Milk? ad with Malkmus are real? Or warranted? In fact, do they think any of this is real? Despite that fact that some of it is kinda real. And the giant Pavement musical, Slanted! Enchanted! A Pavement Musical? They actually put on a musical for an audience. Like an entire musical with dancers and singers and a plot (I didn’t understand) and tons of rehearsals. Twice. Incredible.

Director Alex Ross Perry — whose only other film with which I engaged, Her Smell, which was essentially a piece of Courtney Love fanc fic — just throws it all in a blender and lets you sort it out for yourself. I’m not sure if it’s a matter of there just being too many ideas, or my inability to mostly follow the plot of the fake production of the film-within-a-film, Range Life, but I found myself often distracted by the presence of known actors playing what amounts to fictional versions of themselves. Unless, of course, Joe Keery actually is method and found himself both beguiled and haunted by having to portray Malkmus. He’s not. But I feel like there was just one or two too many elements in the mix. If they’d blown out the Range Life thing and somehow melded it with the larger documentary to kind of blur the lines between history and Joe Keery’s (and the other actors playing the rest of the younger Pavement) portrayal of history and gotten rid of the musical or the museum or some of the other dalliances, I probably would have been more locked in. But, honestly, that would have been a different film. A less chaotic and confusing one where Perry clearly didn’t want you to really get what was going on from one moment to another. And that, I suppose, is why this is more of an experiment than it is a tight, easily classified film. Whatever the case, it clearly gave me something to think about. Even if I would have liked it to be something different than what it was. That’s not ultimately up to me, of course. But I do feel like fans of the band will enjoy seeing them do their thing and appreciate the underground mechanism that drive this film. I’m not sure anyone who isn’t already familiar with the group and their history would get anything that’s going on, and would most likely turn this thing off after a couple minutes, confused by its tone and plotting. But, hey, it’s another wacky thing to add to their Oeuvre. Or their canon, depending on your perspective if Pavement was really ever a real thing to begin with.