Rockets Redglare, aka Michael Morra, was a character actor of note (you've seen him many times, though probably you never knew it) and a fixture in the 80s New York hipster community, perhaps ultimately more notable for his larger-than-life personality than his silver-screen-legacy. I sometimes think it's more important to leave something tangible behind than to make an impression as a human while you're here, but Rockets had me thinking that maybe it's best to live, to balls-out live. And Rockets did that, more than I ever will (barring the heroin addiction I suspect I may fall into in my late 70s, which would be pretty cool, you must admit), or you ever will (for you, simply, have no excuse, asshole). He endured a childhood so horrific even I was impressed (and keep in mind, I was molested by angels), yet managed to ascend to a life of real notoriety—more the kind of cultish notoriety you attain within your own circle of friends than the adulation of the world at large, but notoriety nonetheless. No one who ever met Rockets Redglare walked away unaffected. Some of those people: Matt Dillon, Steve Buscemi, Willem Defoe, and Jim Jarmusch (once again fulfilling his crossroads-pact with Hipster Satan to appear in every documentary on a cool topic). They reminisce about Rockets with a mixture of amusement, regret, and admiration—each of them not being nearly as committed to living as Rockets was, yet each with their shit much, much more together. For Rockets lived life so fully that having his shit together was never an option. And that's what makes this movie so thoroughly beautiful, despite a low-budget look (so low, sometimes it's more like watching home videos you shouldn't be privy to). Rockets was a decades-long car crash, magnificent to behold, and in the end, tragic to acknowledge. Director Luis Fernandez de la Reguera, himself an East Village barfly from back in the day, managed to capture Rockets in the decliniest of declining phases—chasing fixes, drinking toward blackouts, visiting the hospital, taking semi-pathetic beach vacations, and ultimately, yeah, actually dying! All of which seems, somehow, admirable and noble given Rockets's unique stature. It's a sad, sad story, but one that is paradoxically inspiring for anyone who has ever attained a little bit of fame—be it the sort of fame that your local alternative newsweekly might acknowledge, or just the sort of fame that your circle of "genius" friends might celebrate. What Rockets Redglare! is, is brutal fucking truth staring you in the face. Truth as it stared Rockets in the face every day of his life, and you too, and me too, if any of us could be a cool enough fucker to face it.
Review by |