Redford, Paul Simon and the problem - and power - of a final performance
THOUGH David Foster Wallace is my favourite writer, I've never read his final, posthumously released novel, “The Pale King”. My friend Sajid lent it to me in 2011. I have moved to three different cities since then, and the borrowed book remains on my shelf, unread. ( Sorry, Saj.) My reason is as simple as it might be obvious and ridiculous: Once I read it, there's no more Wallace to discover.
I thought about this as I watched ‘ The Old Man and the Gun'. The quiet, unassuming movie about an elder gang of bank robbers stars Robert Redford in what he has claimed will be his final performance.
If it's truly Redford's swan song, then it's a fitting one. The movie feels like a 1970s throwback, with close-ups of his weathered face capturing the camera as his old-world charm imbues the audience with a calm satisfaction. Most importantly, it isn't showy. The message is simple: Some of us were made to do certain things. In the movie, his character is made to rob banks. In real life, Redford was made to act.
Redford is one of the primary reasons I write about popular culture for a living. One of the first movies I remember truly loving was ‘ Three Days of the Condor'. The image of him in a phone booth, desperately shouting, “Everyone! Everyone is dead!” thrilled me and led me to seek out his other movies. It was the beginning of a lifelong love affair, so the idea of it ending has naturally provoked a multitude of feelings.
I imagine many culture fans are experiencing these feelings lately.
First, there's the recent spate of celebrity deaths, including David Bowie, Anthony Bourdain, XXXTentacion, Mac Miller, Burt Reynolds, Tom Petty, Fats Domino and so many more. Then, there's the artists who have announced retirement: Neil Diamond, Joan Baez, Elton John, Ozzy Osbourne and Lynyrd Skynyrd, to name a few. Paul Simon recently completed his final tour and gave a lovely sendoff performance on “Saturday Night Live”.
Others seem close to the finishing their careers. Bob Dylan's inclusion of the usually rare “Like a Rolling Stone” in his newest set lists has prompted some to think he might be wrapping things up. When I see him in concert in November, I'm certainly going to treat it as such.
But is it actually a swan song, or is just another tour for the tireless musician?
The phrase “swan song” is thought to derive from an ancient myth that the birds, silent throughout their lives, belt out one beautiful song. In pop culture, they're a way of bookending a career, finishing a lifelong story, offering closure to fans. Given that “retirement” can be a fickle thing, we don't actually have that many. Even an artist's death often isn't the end, as greedy record companies dig up old demos and, with no one to stop them, drop them in the public consciousness for a few bucks.
When a swan song is planned (and works), though, it can be transcendent.
Warren Zevon and Leonard Cohen fit into that category – both knew the light was fading, and both wanted to issue one final artistic statement.
When Zevon, the virtuoso songwriter behind tunes such as “Werewolves in London” and “Lawyers, Guns and Money”, was diagnosed with mesothelioma and given a few months to live, he immediately began writing his final collection of songs, “The Wind”. The album was Zevon giving himself a eulogy. — Washington Post