Taking Woodstock
Dir: Ang Lee
Rating: 2.0/5.0
Focus Features
110 Minutes
Ang Lee’s career has always been curious, but Taking Woodstock is undoubtedly his most pointless film, with no clear audience or intent. From one perspective, it’s the coming of age story of Elliot Tiber (Demetri Martin), a closeted young entrepreneur who is trying to save his family’s business and maybe (sigh) learn to understand them in the process. Or perhaps it’s the story of the charismatic, headstrong Michael Lang (Jonathan Groff) and the eccentric crew he’s put together to make Woodstock happen. Along the way there are of course the standard ’60s clichés making guest appearances, like Billy (Emile Hirsch), the shellshocked Vietnam vet with a heart of gold or the acid soaked couple who rock Elliot’s world (Paul Dano of There Will Be Blood fame and Zoe Kazan from Lars and the Real Girl). Oh, and let’s not forget the townsfolk who are either out for Elliot’s blood or in the case of Max Yasgur (Eugene Levy) helping him with his kee-rrrazy idea. And did I mention Liev Schreiber plays a Marine sergeant turned transvestite, also with a heart of gold? Actually, you may as well assume everyone in this film has a heart of gold (except the Anti-Semitic townies of course).
Every character, every plot point, every song on the soundtrack seems calculated to pull in a different demographic. Even Danny Elfman gets yanked into the mess as the film is soaked in what has to be his most uninspired, bland score to date, all sitars and psychedelic guitars and moments from those Time-Life “Hits of the ’60s!” ads that come on when you’re flipping through the channels as you’re battling insomnia. The hodgepodge nature of the film is honestly a little insulting. What results is a film that appeals to absolutely no one.
Lee manages to throw in some shocking moments, including what will probably be a little too much man-on-man action for middle America, and nudity galore, which makes Taking Woodstock’s commercial potential dubious. To add to that, Lee also coats the film in too many hippie clichés, including the inevitable acid trip with kaleidoscope effects and 9mm footage that makes Martin’s Elliot seem like the Forrest Gump of Woodstock, somehow present at every classic moment we’re all overly familiar with by now (nun flashing peace signs, the mud sliding, the brown acid). The uninspired ’60s nostalgia will likely alienate the younger crowds as well as those who still think Lee has talented buried somewhere within that part of his brain that convinces him projects like this and Hulk are good ideas.
The pity is that portions of the film indicate that it could have been interesting. Despite how calculated the plot is in its demographic hunting, Martin’s performance as Elliot is surprisingly on target, with enough business sense to make it clear he’s smart, but just enough naivety and innocence to make it clear why he hasn’t been able to succeed. Schreiber’s transvestite Vilma also somehow manages to rise above pure shock value and become a fitting comic foil and it’s clear he enjoyed the role; similarly, Levy turns in a performance that is leagues above anything he’s done in years. But it’s all buried under so much gloss and calculation that it doesn’t save anything. If there’s any mercy in the world, though, this film will do so poorly we’ll finally be saved from any further Woodstock nostalgia; although, honestly, if the rampant raping and pillaging present at the Woodstock anniversary festivals didn’t kill off the franchise, probably nothing ever will.
by Morgan Davis
