Bob Dylan defies categorization, and his refusal to become attached to any notion, name or even general suggestion as to who or what he was is as elusive as the Todd Haynes’ film itself. Every time a name or an image tried to attach itself to him, he ran and morphed into what would eventually become a series of mythical identities or personas, portrayed by six different actors in the film. Without trying to make any sort of cohesive statement about the lives and times of Bob Dylan, Haynes successfully illuminates the indefinable chameleon-like quality of the musical legend by creating a near perfect work of surrealism, a kaleidoscopic anti-biopic, a visual poem. All without mentioning Dylan’s name even once, that in itself is a bold statement.

The mysteries of identity and enigma are examined with unquestionable passion and devotion, as patchwork threaded together by focusing on the masks behind which this complex individual hid and not the man himself. It could come across as pretentious and disconnected, but it is up to the viewer to make up his or her own mind. If the film were an artwork, it would be no paint-by-numbers portrait; it would be as abstract and interpretive as a hallucination. Having said that, a review of this nature can only be described as pure opinion, there is nothing unbiased about it.

Drifting from one canvas to the next as the various personas shift and take on an entirely different level of distinctiveness, each segment asks a different question and gives a different point of view on times of Dylan’s past, some well known, some not. Dissecting the six individuals using words may seem pointless; but not doing so is just the same. As long as it is not overanalyzed, just go with it. The same can be said for the film.

A young black kid (Marcus Carl Franklin) with a big mouth and even bigger aspiration, who goes by the name “Woody Guthrie,” is the first Dylan we see. Defying his age and his odds, he wanders around America with the blues on his mind and a different time on his lips. Just as the man he “names” himself after, the songs Woody writes and sings tell of a time stooped in political defiance and social loss, easily linked to Dylan’s earliest days and music of protest. The boy was both stuck in the past as well as ahead of his time, and when someone tells him to find his own time, he does not take more than a moment to ponder the significance of such a statement before he moves on yet again, taking with him the personality he seems to adorn with no difficulty.

Our first encounter swiftly blends in with another, this time it is Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), a bohemian figure who revels in the ease of life created by the folk singers in Greenwich Village, who we come across. He lived an emotionally tormented and unfocused life, of which we are made aware of through interview footage of fellow folk musician, Alice Fabian (Julianne Moore).

Rollin’s troubled life is immortalised by the young Hollywood heartthrob Robbie Clark (Heath Ledger) in a sort of conventional film biopic, who, ironically, is going through similar difficulties in him own life. Around this time, which I am estimating to be the early seventies, Dylan was fast becoming a man of universal acclaim, a superstar if you will. Clark, like Dylan, was becoming more and more estranged from his seemingly undemanding wife Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) – eventually leading to a simple divorce despite the fact two children were involved – all set against the backdrop of the Vietnam War.

Already faced with enough brilliance by the first three persona’s, the films most talked about and widely acclaimed segment is by far the most exhilarating – Cate Blanchett’s daring exhibition of a conflicted soul “Jude Quinn,” one faced with insurmountable media attention and criticism, mainly from a square British journalist (Bruce Greenwood), they very same kind of categorization Hayne’s sidesteps in his direction. Her performance is not mimicry, it is not even a performance, it is total embodiment of a man so aware of the possibility of a fall from grace that could come with not giving the right answers in interviews etc, but who cares nonetheless. He is uncomfortable in his own skin, Blanchett’s physical resemblance to the man is astounding – but she gives us a glance into the inner workings of the legend as well, and seems to constantly move, unable to settle. Blanchett does more than give a rare glimpse into the essence of Dylan, she is just as intangible yet wholly magnetic and it is difficult to look away from – not that one would dare to think of it.

The fifth and six Dylan are at once similar and vastly different. Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Winshaw) is a poetic youngster, infuriating his off-screen interviewer with his to-the-point-wit and cryptic effervescence and as he looks straight into the camera with a sort of arrogance, there is know doubt he is wise beyond his years and his power lies in the fact that he knows it all too well. Billy the Kid (Richard Gere) is an incarnation of the Western old-timer, roaming with no purpose other than to dwell on the loss of the Hippie idealism. In the end, the film is all about loss, albeit different types. Gere’s performance or rather his segment has been criticised for being disconnected and slightly impenetrable, leaving little space for conclusion or purpose. Perhaps this is true, but at the end of a dreamlike experiment of how the ideas and names given to Dylan may not have been all untrue but rather uncertainly applied to different moments in his life in order to try to “contain” this larger-than-life force, which he kept running away from, would anything other such an “outcome” be expected?

While one’s background knowledge of Bob Dylan is not essential to one’s view or regard of the film, a general appreciation for his music, at the very least, would not hurt. The films spectacular array of Dylan classics, both well-known and less-known, is reason enough to see how they work in the context of the film, which is undoubtedly perfect.

Uncompromisingly personal, in direction and effect, the film is a manifestation of ambition, opinions, myths and seamless transcendent effects that leave abundant space for interpretation, criticism and even revelation, more so than any conventional biopic could have mustered. The film’s resulting achievement is neither here nor there, ever elusive, as was the life the film celebrates.

Fatac Rating: *****

I’m Not There. Directed by Todd Haynes. Written by Todd Haynes and Owen Moverman. Starring: Cate Blanchett, Richard Gere, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale. Ben Wishaw, Marcus Carl Franklin. Running Time: 133 minutes. Age Restriction: 16 L. USA 2008. Rating out of five stars.