When it comes to artistic influence, is it better to be rediscovered later in life after a period of obscurity, or to never have been forgotten in the first place? Most of us would instinctively say it is the latter, but there is something to be said for the process of having your work be unearthed after years of seemingly going unnoticed, since nothing seems to be more en vogue than a revival of creativity. This entire idea seems modern, but has been a part of the cultural conversation for about as long as we’ve been ascribing value to those who choose to pursue the arts for a living, which is something that ultimately inspired Samy Burch to undertake the intimidating task of adapting the novel Später Ruhm by Arthur Schnitzler, which translates to Late Fame, the title of the film version in which Burch loosely reworks the text, moving the setting from Vienna in the late 19th century to New York City in the present era, bringing it to the modern age. The story follows Ed Saxberger, a once-famous poet whose work was compiled into an acclaimed book, which gave him a moment in the spotlight, which he swiftly walked away from in favour of living a simple life, becoming a postal worker who preferred a more humble existence. However, a chance encounter with an overzealous young writer suddenly plunges Saxberger back into the world that he genuinely thought he had left behind – but he quickly realises that the literary scene of his early adult life no longer exists, and he is forced to come to terms with the fact that the world has moved on without him. This ambitious reworking of the novella is brought to life by Kent Jones, into whose very capable hands Burch places her screenplay, the pair working in tandem to create this achingly beautiful and often gently funny exploration of the literary scene and how it attempts to represent a world that doesn’t easily lend itself to clear interpretation.
The layers of subtext that went into Late Fame are astonishing, with some of its ideas likely not even being noticeable to those who aren’t aware of a few details relating to the novella on which the film is based, which was never published within Schnitzler’s lifetime, but was rather discovered long after his death, becoming a cherished work of literature, which the author himself didn’t get to witness. This astonishing irony is part of what makes the film so fascinating, since it is filled with many of these peculiar scenarios in which everything ultimately falls into place, even if it may not be in the way most would’ve expected. At its core, the film is a sardonic, satirical look at the ways in which the literary industry – whether commercially or academically – has changed over the decades. When the protagonist of Late Fame was working as a writer in the 1970s, there was an inherent glamour to living the life of a creative, with the value being placed less on influence and more on how meaningful the work was, even if it was not always successful. Today, any measure of success is done through follower counts or the number of books someone is able to sell, and while this is not an entirely recent development (it would be disingenuous to suggest commercial appeal has not always been a part of the literary process), it can cause even the most dedicated of writers to feel overwhelmed and discouraged in equal measure. The film is clearly written from the perspective of someone who has moved within these circles, and witnessed just how hollow and pretentious this world can be, where those who are resisting the mainstream because of its supposed inauthenticity and lack of credibility tend to be just as shallow as the people who they critique. It’s a fascinating discussion that this film explores extensively, using this poignant parable of a man grappling with the renewed interest in his work as a springboard for some deeper conversations about how art is perceived and consumed.
However, these ideas could’ve been communicated in a multitude of ways, and to conclude this as the overall purpose of Late Fame would be foolish, since there is still so much behind this film that extends beyond a scathing indictment on the arrogance of the modern literary scene, and the protagonist being an older man navigating rediscovery only adds additional layers to the many points of commentary that guide the film. The role of the poet is to observe the world, turning what most can only perceive visually into strings of words that somehow manage to condense the very essence of life into a collection of symbols that we give meaning, and it is from this point that we can ask a much more interesting question: who is more well-suited to describe the world as it is – the young, ambitious upstart seeing it with fresh eyes and learning its deeper truths in real-time, or the older, grizzled veteran whose experiences (good and bad) have calcified into deep wisdom? While the answer is left open to interpretation, the film certainly does take its own side, which is to place the responsibility (some would say burden) of representing the world on the older generation, who have seen more of life and therefore are the most appropriate curators. Late Fame is as much a film about creativity as it is about ageing, and the protagonist is a man who finds himself at both an artistic and psychological impasse, thrust back into a world that he left behind years ago, forced to realise that he is now a relic of a bygone era, worthy of adulation and respect, but who will never be perceived as an equal. It’s a tough moment to realise that one can still be placed on a pedestal and undermined in tandem, and this poignant story of a character who is silently watching the world change around him is a haunting reminder of our own insignificance and the fickle nature of everyday life if viewed from a more distant perspective.
The idea of artistic serendipity is not impossible, but it is rare, with most examples of supposed kismet being nothing more than pure luck most of the time. However, it almost seems fateful that both Jones and Willem Dafoe not only knew of the novella, but were both entertaining the idea of adapting it before either of them even introduced the idea to the other, which is the kind of poetic coincidence that matches the often esoteric nature of this narrative. Ultimately, there’s nothing we can say about Dafoe’s performance that has not been said about any of the work he has done over the past forty years. As one of the most charismatic, magnetic screen presences of his generation, there has never been a time when he hasn’t delivered his absolute best, regardless of the role. However, it’s always wonderful to find him in a part that feels like it is both playing to his particular strengths while also challenging him in various ways, and this film offers both in an abundance. Considering how prolific he is (and obviously astoundingly talented), it is difficult to pinpoint his single best performance, and while I’d probably not choose this particular film as his best work, it is certainly one of the many late-career peaks for the esteemed actor, who is actively seeking ways to make this character his own. It allows Dafoe to play into his more subtle qualities – Saxberger is not a particularly boisterous man, and Dafoe plays him as someone who is both relishing in being the subject of a rediscovery and who struggles with these enormous changes to his life, wondering if he wants to take advantage of what he mistakenly believes is a return to his earlier acclaim, or to just return to his old life, which may not have been exciting but was far more honest. Dafoe is undeniably the heart and soul of Late Fame, with solid supporting work from Edmund Donovan (who is the true discovery of this film, with his stellar performance being very impressive) and Greta Lee, who provide the space for Dafoe to explore the inner architecture of this complex and fascinating character.
Very few people understand the essence of not only filmmaking, but storytelling as a whole, more than Jones – he may have only made a couple of films prior to Late Fame (one of which being the humanist masterpiece Diane, which alone is enough to place him in the artistic canon indefinitely), but as both a critic and filmmaker, he’s demonstrated an astonishing understanding of the craft and how it communicates certain ideas. This film was very much within his wheelhouse – a simple, character-driven drama about an older character reflecting on the past and his journey to get here, which contrasts with his own efforts to understand the younger generation, at first foolishly believing that he could be their peer (or a mentor figure to them, something that factors unexpectedly heavily into the narrative) before realising that he is just a pawn in their attempts to be taken more seriously. This premise could’ve been rendered in so many different ways (and Burch’s screenplay, while masterfully written, does have a bit of intentional ambiguity that we can assume was done to allow for flexibility in the directorial approach), but Jones’ unfurnished, simple approach to direction proved to be the ideal method to bring these ideas to life, especially those which are slightly more complex at a glance. Late Fame is an emotionally rich film, in which every moment carries some meaning – some of its ideas are very simple and easy to comprehend, others need us to do a bit more work to make certain connections. Either way, Jones’ subdued direction feels like a perfect match for these ideas, since he consistently refuses to overplay any aspect of this story, even when it wouldn’t have been entirely unreasonable for it to go broader than it was here. The warm, autumnal view of New York City matches the homely, elegant nature of the film, which couldn’t be overwrought even if it tried, which is a clear indication of Jones’ astonishing gifts and Burch’s beautifully elegant screenplay that is brimming with so many complex ideas.
A while ago, I was talking to a friend about existence and how everything seems so much bigger than it actually is when we assess life from a distance. A statistic I found through this conversation is that it is estimated that, in all of human history, there have been roughly 117 billion people who have lived. It’s an unfathomably large number, and one that is even more intimidating when we realise how less than the smallest fraction of those will ever have their names remembered beyond a few generations. The reality is that nearly every one of us is going to be forgotten at some point – even the most beloved and important historical figures are likely going to fade into obscurity. It takes a lot to be remembered, so rather than chasing a legacy that we know we are not likely to attain, why not just embrace the beautiful absurdity of life while we’re here to experience it for ourselves? It’s an optimistic idea that at first seems at odds with what Late Fame is trying to communicate, until we realise that this is ultimately what defines the film and makes it so incredibly compelling, since it doesn’t have an easy answer but yet still seems so obvious in hindsight. There is always something to be said about a film that is this willing to challenge itself without being too ambitious, knowing its limitations and being more than capable of showing the necessary restraint when required. Jones is a masterful filmmaker, whose subtle direction may seem overly cautious, but who has a profound honesty in his work that ultimately anchors it in a very realistic, honest place that feels much more reflective of the real world in which we live. It is overall a striking, beautifully crafted film that understands exactly how to tell such a challenging story while also striking a chord, resonating with anyone who has ever felt adrift in a world that we can’t seem to understand – the simple filmmaking, astonishing performances and deeply moving message all ultimately come to define this film, making it one of the most tender, honest explorations of art, identity and the very act of being alive in a world that is simultaneously hopelessly hostile and breathtakingly beautiful.
