The Curmudgeon: The Two Faces of Brian Wilson
In Love & Mercy, the new movie biopic about Brian Wilson, the legendary Beach Boy is portrayed by two different actors. Paul Dano plays Wilson as the creative genius of the mid-‘60s, while John Cusack plays Wilson as the psychological wreck of the mid-‘80s.
This gambit doesn’t really work as filmmaking; it constantly pushes us out of our suspended disbelief and makes us too aware of the picture’s artifice. This might have worked if the movie had been as radical and disruptive as something by Jean-Luc Godard or Wong Kar-Wai, but director Bill Pohlad’s take on the older Wilson, despite a few innovations, is pretty standard biopic fare. Couldn’t Pohlad have whipped up some crazy-old-man make-up for Dano?
The device of two actors portraying the same person does work, however, as a kind of music criticism, for the hyperactive Wilson who wrote and produced Beach Boys Today, Summer Days (And Summer Nights), Pet Sounds, Smile and Wild Honey between 1965 and 1967 was a very different person from the overweight recluse who contributed no more than a handful of album tracks between 1978 and 1987. How the one turned into the other is one of the compelling tragedies of rock history.
You might anticipate that the movie would pull off the dramatic scenes of recovering from disability but not the music-nerd scenes of recording Pet Sounds and Smile, but the results defy both halves of those expectations. It’s the Dano scenes in the studio that sparkle with credibility and invention, and the Cusack scenes that sag with predictability and formula.
I’m not the only journalist who has heard fascinating stories from various Beach Boys and associates about Wilson’s working habits in the studio. But it’s still a thrill to see those tales brought to life so convincingly on the screen. Dano—with his pudgy frame, eyebrow-grazing bangs and far-off stare—closely resembles the Wilson of those years, and he radiates the authority that allows a 23-year-old kid to direct a roomful of older guys (and one woman, bassist Carol Kaye) who were some of the best musicians in popular music at the time.
This may seem implausible, but another recent movie, Wrecking Crew, confirms it. This documentary by Denny Tedesco, released in March, focuses on the loosely defined group of musicians who played L.A. studio sessions for everyone from Frank Sinatra and Herb Alpert to Phil Spector and the Mamas & the Papas. Key figures in that band such as Kaye, drummer Hal Blaine, guitarist Glen Campbell, pianist Leon Russell, guitarist Tommy Tedesco (the filmmaker’s father), bassist Joe Osborne, pianist Larry Knechtel, drummer Earl Palmer and saxophonist Plas Johnson are interviewed about those days.
One theme that emerges from these conversations is how bored these musicians trained in classical music and jazz were by the three major chords they were often asked to play again and again. But when they worked with Wilson, they were more likely to be bewildered than bored by his arrangements. There’s a famous story of Kaye telling Wilson that one arrangement couldn’t possibly work, because he had two different bassists playing in two different keys. He replied that he could hear it in his head and that it would work when all the pieces fit together. And sure enough it did.
That scene is portrayed in Love & Mercy with wonderful naturalism by Dano and Teresa Cowles (as Kaye). And the story is confirmed by Kaye in Wrecking Crew. It’s further confirmed by the astonishing musical complexity and emotional depth of Pet Sounds.
The hardest thing for a movie or a book about pop culture to get right is the mysterious act of music-making. That’s why so many films and paperbacks focus instead on the melodrama of rise, fall and recovery. That’s a familiar story in sports and politics as well as music, and is easy to deliver for an audience. But what makes Ray Charles’ struggles with drugs or Brian Wilson’s with mental health any different from the problems of the bus driver or office assistant in your neighborhood?
The only thing that distinguishes Charles and Wilson is the ability to create indelible music. How do they do that? That’s what we really want to know, and that’s what very few movies and books tell us. Pohlad does both: He gives us the process of creativity and the celebrity melodrama. It’s no wonder that the first is far more riveting than the latter.
Wrecking Crew also delves into the creative process, but Tedesco is a less skillful filmmaker than Pohlad. The documentary lacks the rhythm and continuity of good storytelling, and is hampered by a lack of footage of the session musicians at the peak of their powers. So you get wonderful clips of the singers lip-syncing their Wrecking Crew-backed hits on TV, but scant footage of the crew itself in action—and almost no contemporaneous interviews. For all its flaws, however, Tedesco has provided an invaluable service of shining a light on these underappreciated musicians, who played such an immense role in pop music, and of getting their stories down on the record before they die.