“Almost Famous” and The Power of Being Uncool
A movie succeeds only when it evokes a proverbial reaction from its audience. Whether it be awestruck paralysis, violent repulsion, or sheer entertainment, the sole goal of films is to make you feel something.
If that’s the case, dopamine rushes sit above all others in the hierarchy of stationary responses to a thing on a screen made by people you have probably never met and will never meet. It’s almost inexplicable, but if you have ever felt that rush watching a film you love, you know exactly what I’m referring to. Happy tears start to flow; it’s impossible to wipe that stupid grin off your face. Upon repeat viewing, you laugh even harder at the same favorite scenes and notice details you’d passed over in every prior viewing (this happens every time I re-watch The Social Network and Inception — it’s like they add in a new scene or a handful of lines between my annual rewatches). These movies are guaranteed short-term cures for depressive episodes, and the feeling they provide is unequivocally better than any relief alcohol or drugs could ever provide.
Prior to watching Almost Famous, I barely knew what it was. I recognized the famous poster of Kate Hudson’s sunglassed face, and that it depicted a traveling band accompanied by a high-schooler. Had no idea it was Cameron Crowe’s autobiographical passion piece, or that it is considered to be among the greatest films of the 21st century. Never would I have guessed how I’d come to love it. Hell, Jim Miller loves the movie so much that he crafted an entire season (or chapter) of his Origins podcast, known for wide-ranging profiles of the creation of ESPN and Saturday Night Live among other things, around the film’s production.
In other words, I didn’t know what Almost Famous was really about. When I watched it for the first time, it hit me over the head with a barrage of dopamine. By the time Stillwater takes the stage for the first time in San Diego, my metaphorical poker chips were scattered about the table. I was all in on the movie from the jump, but in a messy, disorderly manner. Often times, a newfound love for a certain movie defies explanation; sometimes all there is to say about it is, “It’s just so fucking good!” Nobody really loves a movie in any sort of organized way until they watch it for the 46th time and can recite the screenplay backward and forward. We all get there eventually.
There’s a certain pride that “uncool” people take in being exactly that. It’s a bonding mechanism, just like gym rats take pride in how many creatine shakes they drink each day, or how Wall Street gurus relish coaching one another on the optimal times of day to jerk off to maximize their productivity. Once you realize you’re not cool, even in the most stereotypical, superficial sense — you accept that, and you find people that are uncool in the same ways. My version of uncool is the thousands of other depressed adolescents and college-hating students who want to do nothing but talk about movies on Twitter. For William Miller, uncool was Stillwater, the Band-Aids, and Lester Bangs. The power of being uncool was impossible to miss when I lost my Almost Famous virginity, but as the world creeps towards the film’s 20th anniversary, it’s worth reminding fans that despite the dogma preached by grade school politics, you don’t need to be cool to fit in. Your closest friends will come from a shared love of something more tangible than superficial and judgmental status. That idea is what Almost Famous preached to me, the notion that it’s totally cool to like what you like and do what makes you happy, conventional standards be damned.
Almost Famous’s most prominent theme, then, is the importance of doing what feels important to oneself. There’s the risk-free, straight and narrow path that so many people follow their whole life: go to school, get a mediocre job that pays well and, if you’re lucky, save a chunk of every check. Hopefully, by the time you turn 65, you can retire and have the physical means to do something that’s actually intrinsically satisfying. I’m currently reading The Firm, and that professional cynicism is undeniable even in the early chapters. The people who eschew that type of life take the risk that comes with letting the guarantees of the tried-and-true path fall by the wayside, and they’re taking the first risk with, hopefully, the knowledge that they might be the only person who believes their risk will pay off.
William’s mother Elaine (Frances McDormand) stands firm in her belief that modern music will destroy William’s precocious mind and undermine his path to law school; on the flip side, his older sister Anita (Zooey Deschanel, in an early breakout role) personifies the rebellion of the late 1960s, rejecting her mother’s sheltering in favor of a move to San Francisco and a job as a flight attendant. His entire childhood, he’s seen the best and worst of both worlds, the one that pays the bills at the expense of independent thinking juxtaposed with the idealistic magic carpet on which Anita rides into the ’70s.
William is not openly opposed to his mother’s methods like Anita, but the film’s opening scene indicates that she can’t be trusted to act in William’s best interest. Despite being the closest thing the film has to an antagonist, Elaine has no intention of hurting William. Her overwhelming love for her son and implicit fear of being alone simply forces her to keep him a little too close. Elaine led him to believe he was a year older than he was but didn’t feel it necessary to tell him he was a year younger than all his classmates. Flash forward four years, and fifteen-year-old William has the makings of a prodigious rock critic. Consider it payback to Elaine for her deceit. She’s still convinced he’ll take the bar one day, but for the time being, she accommodates his interest in writing about the poisonous world of rock n’ roll. Little does she know that when she drops him off at a Black Sabbath concert for an assignment from Lester Bangs (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), her son will be irreclaimable. That concert is where William meets Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) and the Band-Aids as well as Stillwater, headed by singer Jeff Bebe (Jason Lee) and guitarist Russell Hammond (Billy Crudup).
William’s instant recognition of these kindred spirits is an ostensible rejection of the career path Elaine anticipates, but it’s also the moment he immediately realizes this is the life he wants. No matter what conventionality says he should do with his life. Stillwater and the Band-Aids are, in William’s eyes, good people. For the first time ever, William feels appreciated — by people he took a life-altering risk to befriend.
Russell takes a quick liking to William and promises him an interview, as long as William will make them look cool. This is inherently at odds with advice Bangs provides William, the most iconic line in the entire film: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool…My advice to you. I know you think those guys are your friends. You wanna be a true friend to them? Be honest, and unmerciful.”
A fifteen-year-old rock critic is pressed to choose the path he wants his life to take while deciding how to paint his subject, his friends, for a potential Rolling Stone cover story, which he’s writing in no small part because his mentor is one of the greatest art critics to ever put pen to paper; frankly, I have no idea how the pressure takes so long to come crashing down on William. Maybe it’s because subconsciously he understands that if he is honest and unmerciful, he will still portray Stillwater in a positive light. After all, they’re in the midst of altering the path of his entire life. I don’t see how he couldn’t write about them lovingly.
Ultimately, all he can be is honest. That’s the beauty of being uncool: after a while, you stop giving a shit what people think and you do the thing that makes you happy. William’s best writing will only show up on the paper if he’s honest about his experiences on the road with Stillwater, and it’s not like the band’s members have anything to be afraid of anyway. They love William, even if they don’t (or can’t) fully trust him, and William loves them. They’re the reason he’s going to live life on his terms, not Elaine’s. Stillwater showed him the power of being uncool, and they introduced him to the rush of dopamine that tags along with teenage rebellion.
Almost Famous is Crowe’s share of the truth from his own experiences, and it’s why the film is so captivating. He was as captivated by the true story as I was watching his masterpiece for the first time. For someone to paint as vivid a picture as this one of their formative years gives greater definition to the same period in the lives of the audience. There’s a clear reason why, twenty years after its pedestrian theater release, Almost Famous leaves a mark on every pair of eyes lucky enough to see it. Crowe sugarcoated nothing, and painted the picture as he lived it: honestly, and unmercifully.
