FILMS
by Donald von Wiedenman
Janis is one of those extraordinary films that proves once and for all that truth is more intriguing than fiction. A series of filmed perform-: ances and interviews with the late, certainly great Janis Joplin, this movie provides an exciting ride on the roller coaster of rock-and-roll stardom. It makes no attempt to explain or judge. It is merely a chronicle of the craziness that made Janis one of the most outrageous, talented, honest and upfront women ever to experience fame and martyrdom. And by telling the story so simply, it serves as a fine and faithful tribute to her remarkable life.
When Janis became a legend in the '60s, it was as if women everywhere finally had a spokesperson to stand up and speak out for them. She wasn't a feminist by any standards, but her humanity and warmth made people stop and think. She said what she felt. There were no games, no guessing, no bullshit. From the time she left Texas to the time she died, she never pulled any punches. She sang of love gone wrong, of love gone right, of the heartaches and problems and fulfillments of the generation that was then called "the flower children." But unlike other superstars of that era, she didn't advocate flowers and pretty things. She personified living life to its fullest, trying everything at least once and never settling for second best.
I was never really a fan of Janis
when she was alive. For one thing, I was living in London at the time, and except for a very rare concert appearance, we never saw her there. We heard about her, saw pictures of her and listened to her records, but the reality of this loud, pleading, almost vulgar voice was never pieced together with anyone in particular. Very seldom did she appear on English television, and then she seemed very subdued, very ordinary, just another young girl from a small town who made it big for some extraordinary reason.
But after she died and I returned to the States, I began to be surrounded by her followers, a cult who worshipped the aura of this legend. So I listened to her records a little more carefully, saw film footage of her and also became a fan a little late to see her in person, but a fan all the same. Like millions of people everywhere, I still can't think of Southern Comfort without thinking of Janis. And I still can't ride in a Mercedes Benz without hearing her voice calling me from the distance.
Most documentaries about legends leave one wanting for more, unsatisfied and more curious than ever. Janis is an exception. It contains the very best of her concert appearances, the most candid of the interviews made with her, the most outrageous side of her multidimensional personality. The film shows her during her prestardom years and at the height of her career, always with much clarity.
From Big Brother and the Holding Company to the Kozmic Blues band to the Full Tilt Boogie Band,
Janis is there, singing her heart out, bringing audiences to their feet, causing the world to clap its hands in awe and adoration. Her best moments are recorded as if someone wanted to create a leg-. end, not capture the essence of a singer. And through the lens of the many cameras, a woman lives and breathes and belts out another one just when you think she can't possibly have the energy to even stand up. She sings all the best, most meaningful (I hate that word, but it fits) songs in this film, everything from "Mercedes Benz" to "Try (Just a Little Bit Harder)" to "Summertime" to "Me and Bobbie McGee."
But there is more to Janis than musical chronology. There are the highlights from a Dick Cavett Show on which, after about 30 seconds, she reduced Cavett to a quivering wreck, countering his driveling questions with pertinent questions of her own, questions which were on all our lips at the time. She said that her music came through her without control, that
she was just a little girl who was getting paid for doing what she loved best. There was bitterness there, too. She talked about the small town in Texas where her classmates laughed at her. And then, wrapped in feathers and frills and the trappings of a rock star, she said she was going back for her high school reunion. The audience howled; Cavett was incredulous. But Janis meant it.
In the next segment of the film, she is back in the middle of where it all began. Complete with TV cameras, an entourage and years of resentment, she tries to play it as straight as she could, but one. senses the meaninglessness of this belated victory. When asked if she went to the high school prom, she replies no. When pressed by the intrepid interviewer if she had even been asked, she meekly replies that she hadn't. The aud-
'Janis'
ience I was in hissed and booed, put down the interviewer and would have rallied around her had she been there.
In one of the most eerie moments of the movie, Janis is performing at the Monterey Pop Festival. At the end of her set, the camera pans the audience and settles in on Cass Elliott who, fascinated by the performance, mouths a silent "Wow." It's a little chilling, these two great women seen together for only fleeting moment. When Janis died, Cass broke down and cried. "They will say she killed herself," Cass said to me. "That's the real tragedy of it all."
a
However Janis died, she didn't die without living, and the way she lived might still be a model to many today. Janis is a master-. piece. Even if you never knew her, never heard her, never saw her perform, you will finally understand. It's one of the finest tri-
butes I've ever seen to anyone.
"... she didn't die without living,
and the way she lived
might still be a model to many today."
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Page 28
THE ADVOCATE
May 7, 1975