There has been much talk lately of something called a “Performative Male”—namely a guy who conspicuously reads, say, The Bell Jar on the subway and wears a “Believe Women” tee-shirt. There are performative young men at the center of Kent Jones’ Late Fame, but of a different sort. They dress like they just did a stint at the Algonquin Roundtable and they have a strangely formal way of talking—no “likes” and “you knows” for them. But their metaphors are a bit mixed, as they worship the Beat Generation writers like William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, who probably had disdain for those Algonquin sharpies.
All of them are rich and living off their daddy’s money in New York; they assemble at a bar and call themselves The Enthusiasm Society. (Whether the name is ironic or not is left unclear.)
They have also recently discovered a new poet. Well, a new old poet. His name is Ed Saxberger (Willem Dafoe). He wrote a book of Beat-adjacent poetry that made a minor splash in the early ’70s and he never wrote again. He now leads a quiet, somewhat unremarkable life—he works for the post office and plays pool and shoots the shit with a group of old friends at an East Village bar.
One day he is approached by the leader of The Enthusiasm Society, Meyers (an amusing Edmund Donovan), dressed in an overcoat and the sort of hat you might expect to see in the film Reds. “Are you the Ed Saxberger?” he asks, in awe. He explains that he and his buddies read Way Past Go, the poetry book, and loved it. They think Saxberger is way overdue for a reassessment and a revival. Saxberger for his part is baffled by this young man’s enthusiasm. Is this a joke? His book is out of print. (Meyers found it at a used bookstore.)
“Call me Ed,” he tells Meyers, who objects. “We use last names,” he says. The affectation is strong with this group.
Saxberger half-heartedly agrees to meet with Meyers’ crew, a self-styled group of playwrights, essayists, and poets, at their preferred bar. (They are much more into calling themselves writers than, you know, actually writing.)
Across from them at a different table, like a rival gang of sorts, are a group of influencers, whom they disdain (except for when they want to get in their pants).
“They’re addicts,” says Meyers (Edmund Donovan), with disgust.
“Heroin?” asks Saxberger.
“No, their phones.”
(I loved that little exchange because it shows that Saxberger emerged from a truly dangerous and underground culture. These pampered boys think a phone addiction is a serious problem.)
I was amused by the first part of the film—it reminded me a bit of Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan—as these self-serious young men courted their new idol.
But then Greta Lee’s Gloria, an aspiring actress, shows up and the film shifts rather significantly, because she’s such an outsized presence. Unlike the boys, she doesn’t come from money. And it’s hard to fully describe her schtick (they all have schtick). She sports a flapper haircut, black cat-eye makeup, and a fur stole. She demands that everyone kisses her hand and when she luxuriously flops into a chair, she loudly orders an absinthe.
All the boys are apparently in love with her, but she sets her attention on Saxberger, perhaps thinking he’ll be easy to manipulate or maybe because she’s always drawn to the shiny new thing.
Saxberger is abashed, flattered, and, yes, a bit turned on. He had reluctantly joined this crew but now he must admit he likes it. He and Gloria even begin hanging out.
But eventually something begins to gnaw at him. He feels tokenized. Like a novelty act.
“You must’ve been so beautiful when you were young,” Gloria says to him. Later, Meyers spins a romanticized fantasy of Saxberger arriving in New York with a “duffel bag and 7 dollars.” (“It wasn’t like that,” Saxberger replies.) A group of young people calls him “grandpa.” What he wants to do is revisit the promise, the excitement, the possibility of his youth—but these young people just keep reminding him how old he is.
Late Fame is the kind of small, smart, and specific indie film that I can never get enough of. I didn’t agree with all its choices—again, Gloria is just too much, and I wasn’t always sure how we were supposed to feel about her. Is she really a talented actress? Does she really have feelings for Saxberger? And what’s up with that cabaret act she does for a small group of horny old men? Is she…a prostitute? Just a down-on-her-luck actress who enjoys slipping into the genteel world these Enthusiasm Society boys have created? Her presence is so large, loud, and over-the-top, she derails the film. (I’m not criticizing Lee, who is a fine actress. The script just does her no favors.)
Dafoe, however, is remarkable—not afraid to show how quickly the sheepish Saxberger gets swept up in the fantasy of him as this dashing raconteur leading a group of young men to greatness. He quietly yearns for things, almost as if he’s forgotten how, and it’s touching. The film shows how easy it is to mythologize yourself and others. But reality has this stubborn habit of getting in the way.
Late Fame opens Friday at the Charles Theatre.