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It was a brief, lurid, glittery blast that couldn't last. But in 'Velvet Goldmine,' writer-director Todd Haynes rockets back in time to the arty, sexually outlandish pop scene known as glam rock.
By DAVID GRITTEN
Don't you know you're driving your Mamas and Papas insane." --David Bowie, 1971 This is a film set with a whole lot of ch-ch-changes going on. Actor Jonathan Rhys Meyers looks as if he stepped from the pages of a 25-year-old British music magazine, dressed as he is in platform heels and a figure-hugging sweater, with a leopard-skin scarf trailing from his neck. He wears a reddish-brown wig of spiky, layered hair, with an ultrashort fringe exposing his entire forehead. One finally becomes accustomed to Rhys Meyers looking this way, when he disappears for half an hour and reemerges, this time stripped to the waist, clad in tight, silky, flared cream pants--and this time his hair is a spiky mass of bright blue. Ewan McGregor, the charismatic star of last year's "Trainspotting," is doing some ch-ch-changes of his own. The morning sees him in leather jacket and pants, but his after-lunch look includes a dirty-blond, shoulder-length wig, skin-tight snakeskin trousers and black nail varnish. Of course, if you make a film about glam rock, it's only to be expected that a day's shooting involves more costume changes than a Diana Ross concert. Glam rock? The phrase, more familiar to British ears than American ones, defines a short period in pop history (roughly 1969-1973) when a number of artists--mostly British--experimented with the whole notion of stage identity and persona. Some also pushed the boundaries of gender stereotypes in pop music and were cheerfully ambivalent about their own sexuality. Now the outlandish nature of this era is being recaptured in "Velvet Goldmine," a film by renegade independent American writer-director Todd Haynes. "What was so interesting about that brief time," says Haynes' longtime producer, Christine Vachon, "is that not only was it OK to [experiment] with gender, you had to in order to be musically successful. "When you see some old 'Top of the Pops' [British TV music shows] from that time, even bands like the Rolling Stones, who weren't associated with glam rock, wore lipstick and feather boas. The whole movement was fascinating. In the end it went as far as it could. It was almost too dangerous." The key, enduring British artists in the glam rock movement were David Bowie and the group Roxy Music, initially led both by its singer, art-school graduate Bryan Ferry and keyboard player Brian Eno. Marc Bolan's group, T. Rex (who drenched themselves in glitter), enjoyed commercial success with a string of hit singles; other artists, like the Sweet and Gary Glitter, co-opted glam rock fashions while staying firmly within the realms of disposable bubble gum pop. Bowie and Roxy Music changed appearances like so many discarded masks for successive tours and albums. Bowie, first seen as a sharp-suited London Mod, grew his hair long and effeminate and donned a dress, then subsumed his character into Ziggy Stardust, a campy, glitter-caked rock star with spiky, lurid red hair and an extravagant, theatrical stage act. As his song "The Bewlay Brothers" puts it, he was: "chameleon, comedian, Corinthian and caricature." The first two Roxy Music albums show them as a space age glitter-clad art-rock band; Eno, in thick makeup and mascara, used to wear creations with exquisite long feathers sprouting from the shoulders. Later, Ferry would appear as a World War II-era GI, a suave lounge lizard in a white tuxedo and an Argentine gaucho. Glam rock manifested itself differently in the U.S. The Velvet Underground (especially Lou Reed) and Iggy Pop (of the Stooges) were Bowie's main American musical reference points, but the nearest visual equivalent was the New York Dolls, who emerged as glam rock waned in Britain. "The movement got caught up and quickly reworked into heavy metal in the States," says Vachon, "and there it stayed." Glam rock's defining moment came in 1972 on the release of Bowie's album "Hunky Dory," when he told a music journalist: "I'm gay and always have been." Back then, rock stars simply did not say such things; Bowie later recanted: "It was probably the most provocative thing one could say in 1972. Drug talk was positively establishment, and it sort of felt like the era of self-invention [was] coming up." Still, his disclosure was a clarion call to gay British teenagers who until then had found little for them in popular culture. One such kid, 15 at the time, was Peter King, who has the frantic task of supervising the actors' hair on "Velvet Goldmine." "When Bowie came out and said that," he recalls, "it was a big, big number." "Hunky Dory" is full of coded gay references; its key song, "Changes," is virtually a coming-out anthem:
As they try to change their worlds Are immune to your consultations They're quite aware of what they're going through Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes Don't tell them to grow up and out of it. All this may be part of the reason for Haynes' fascination with glam rock; he and Vachon are leading figures in the community of gay American filmmakers. "I was a little bit young for glam rock," says Haynes, 36, who grew up in the San Fernando Valley. "There was a strong glam scene with people my age, usually girls of 12 or 13 hanging out at Rodney Bingenheimer's. But I missed it. "In my college years I got into the music and began to see a connection between Bowie, Roxy Music, bands I liked. And there was such a connection, it was obvious. They were camp, ironic, playful with sexuality and with a more sexually aggressive agenda than had gone before. I loved Lou Reed and Iggy Pop's music too, but there's something particularly English about the best examples of glam rock." Still, "Velvet Goldmine" (the title comes from an obscure 1973 Bowie song) is fiction, not a documentary or biopic: "It takes to heart the spirit of glam rock," muses Haynes, "which is not about telling the truth, but dressing it up." The story is told from the vantage point of the conservative 1980s. Its central character in the story is Brian Slade (Rhys Meyers), a charismatic Bowie-like rock star who, unable to escape from his stage persona, stages his own fake assassination. Christian Bale plays Arthur, a British journalist working on a New York newspaper and once a devoted fan of Slade. He seeks to uncover the truth behind his former hero's rise and fall, and tracks down Slade's wife, Mandy (played by Australian actress Toni Collette from "Muriel's Wedding" and "Emma"). She recounts Slade's story, including his infatuation with an American singer, Curt Wild, portrayed by McGregor as a cross between rockers Reed and Pop. That's the bare narrative, but as one might expect, music is a crucial part of "Velvet Goldmine." Its executive producer is Michael Stipe of R.E.M., and, says Vachon, "he's been able to get us access to a whole lot of people. His calls get returned--put it that way." Stipe even managed to engineer a dinner meeting for Haynes with Roxy Music's frontmen Ferry and Eno, who famously became estranged after the group's first two albums, when Eno quit. Vachon noted that some of the music will be original recordings, such as Reed's "Satellite of Love." "We're using a lot of Roxy Music material covered by contemporary people, notably Thom Yorke of Radiohead," she added. A batch of Iggy Pop songs--such as "TV Eye" and "Gimme Danger"--were recorded by a "dream band," including Ron Asheton, bassist with the original Stooges; Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth, and Mark Arm of Mudhoney. The London-based band Placebo recorded a cover of Marc Bolan's "20th Century Boy," and Grant Lee Buffalo contributed a handful of new songs in the glam-rock style. Rhys Meyers said that for one scene he had sung "Baby's on Fire," a song by Eno from his first solo album after leaving Roxy Music. "When Todd and I were developing 'Velvet Goldmine,' we spent a fair amount of time in England," recalls Vachon. "I had an English girlfriend at the time, and she gave Todd a tape by [minor British glam rockers] Cockney Rebel." So there's also a Cockney Rebel song, "Sebastian," on the soundtrack. All this suggests a film with potentially wide appeal--though Haynes is cautious: "I've always been surprised by how much any film I've ever made has generated interest or critical support. None of them has ever made money and I've never expected them to. But this music is so enveloping, and this is a production full of a joy my other films haven't had, sure." That is putting it mildly. Haynes' career has been dogged by controversy and marked by his fascination with life's darker areas. His first effort, in 1987, the notorious "Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story," was a 43-minute short about the singer's life and death from anorexia, played by Ken and Barbie dolls on cardboard sets. He used the Carpenters' music without permission, and was served with a cease-and-desist notice by Richard Carpenter and A&M Records. The film was subsequently banned from any form of distribution, although bootleg copies have circulated around Hollywood for years. His first feature-length film, "Poison," caused an even greater stir. A trilogy of loosely linked stories, inspired by the work of homosexual French author, jailbird and inveterate criminal Jean Genet (whose name was adapted by Bowie for his song "Jean Genie"), "Poison" dwells on themes of rape and homoerotic obsession. Its screening at the 1991 Sundance Festival prompted walkouts, and conservatives lambasted the NEA, which had put up $25,000 in post-production funds, fueling the debate about whether the government should subsidize such controversial works of art. Haynes' next feature, 1995's "Safe," is an unnerving, unresolved story starring Julianne Moore as an affluent San Fernando Valley homemaker suffering from a mysterious, incurable wasting disease. On its release it baffled many critics, some of whom still found it sufficiently memorable to place it on their Top 10 year-end lists. Haynes has previously insisted that much of his work has been indirectly about AIDS. He doesn't make that claim for "Velvet Goldmine" but agrees there is a poign-ancy about portraying unfettered sexual freedom in the '70s to a '90s audience that, unlike the characters, knows AIDS will terminate the era. "There was something about the time that opened up, then closed back down again quickly in terms of cultural groups," he says. "In the early '70s, there were black and white communities interested in each other, in things we all shared. By the '80s, it was a conservative climate of fearfulness, which emphasized our differences." 'People my age say they don't believe anyone ever looked like this," Rhys Meyers says. "But I can understand that. We're talking about the exceptional few--the glamorous ones." Rhys Meyers, 20, is perched on a bar stool at this tiny studio 30 miles west of London, pondering glam-rock from beneath his bright blue wig. "For the first time, pop stars were bringing in huge audiences. I suppose if you're on a stage in front of 40,000 people, you have to be sure people in the back row can see you. The stars of this period were essentially actors. They believed in their roles 100%." He has an excitable manner and punctuates his sentences with flailing arm gestures, suddenly raising his voice, then imitating the sound of crashing guitar chords. "The moment you put on these clothes and this hair, you become more effeminate and loud and camp," he says, almost apologetically. McGregor, being a little older, is calmer, but agrees that on this film clothes and appearance define character. "This is the most physical part I've ever done," he says, reclining on an armchair in his room between scenes. When he is told his long, blond wig and smudged eye makeup give hime a sluttish look, McGregor politely says: "Why, thank you," as if this were a gracious compliment. "I love it," he says of his unkempt appearance. "I keep saying, 'More eyeliner! More!' The makeup artist puts it on and I spend several minutes rubbing it around." McGregor sang his Iggy Pop songs over prerecorded tracks for a concert sequence recorded at the London music venue Brixton Academy. "I watched a lot of Iggy [on tape]. He's like a small kid, thrashing around in sporadic bursts, not even in time with the music sometimes. It's like he has to let it all out. Having experienced doing that in front of 200 extras, I know that's the key to this character." He admits he doesn't care too much for glam rock: "I liked the Stooges, but I've never been into Bowie." Yet he immediately committed to "Velvet Goldmine" after reading Haynes' script: "It's so brilliantly put together. It's fractured, with loads of scenes without dialogue, and other scenes which are just snippets really. That kind of represents the amphetamine-fueled '70s." Bale agrees. "I thought 'Velvet Goldmine' was a brilliant script," he said. "We haven't rehearsed much, we've just talked it through a lot with Todd to make sure we all understand it. "My only regret," he adds, deadpan, "is I don't get to play a rock star in it--or join in any of the orgy scenes. My character Arthur's perspective is that of the fan, and the effect of this era on someone not making the music. He's the sad loser of this film, really. He's closed off, bitter, and he does his own eye makeup--very badly." Even off camera, the Welsh-born Bale speaks in an authentic Manchester accent, like Arthur. "It's just easier to keep it up," he says. "Trouble is, some of the crew come from Manchester, and they asked exactly where I lived. I told them I was raised by a strict religious cult, and I didn't get outdoors much." Costume designer Sandy Powell is busy gluing individual sequins to something she calls "the green alien costume" for Toni Collette, while Roxy Music's "Virginia Plain" blares from a compilation tape. "I remember some of this era," says Powell, who is 40-ish. "I was a young teenager at the time, so I was really impressionable. I didn't wear green alien costumes, but I did wear platform heels. "I'm older than almost everyone here, and I have to tell them [that] for a short time, this is what people wore." She sighs audibly. "Visually, nothing's been as good since this era in music. Now and then, costume designers get a gift of a film--and this is one." King agrees: "The last film I did was 'Portrait of a Lady,' and that had a lot of wigs. But nothing like this." Haynes seems to have entered into the film's period spirit. His hair is brushed forward into bangs, and he has shaggy sideburns; in a skinny sweater and a short corduroy Wrangler jacket, he could pass for a British Mod circa 1970, about to dip a toe into glam-rock fashions. "Oh, this is nothing," says Haynes airily. "When I started researching this film I grew my hair into a Ziggy Stardust cut and dyed it bright red. There are pictures of me at the Cannes Film Festival in 1995 you wouldn't believe. I wanted to know what it felt like to wear super-, super-tight skinny little tops that reveal you in ways that haven't been fashionable for men for quite a while now. "And it really is a different feeling, being on platform shoes. It's what women experience every day. You feel very fragile but grand, teetering on those heels. It was weird. So I went through that whole thing, the high maintenance of keeping the hair going, the blow-drying every morning." Back on set, McGregor and Rhys Meyers climb aboard two cheap, tacky, brightly painted rocket cars from a fairground ride, adorned with the words "SupaJet" and "High Flyer." The cars are mounted on scaffolding that is pushed back and forth along the sound stage floor by crewmen, making the cars rise and fall. A wind machine blows, trailing Rhys Meyers' gossamer scarf behind him, and the two actors, lip-syncing to Lou Reed's "Satellite of Love," make extravagantly camp, flirtatious gestures to each other. The expressions on their faces are of drowsy ecstasy. A carousel of colored lights swirls in front of the camera; McGregor says this is part of a "falling-in-love montage sequence" featuring Curt and Brian. Later on, several people on set go around humming "Satellite of Love" almost unconsciously. "Oh, we're in for a glam-rock revival, you'll see," says costumer Powell. "I hope not," says McGregor, grinning impishly, when this prediction is put to him. "Because it's really annoying music. But fashion-wise, you drive through Camden (a chic area of north London) and there are people there wearing more outrageously '70s clothes than we wear in this film. It's a huge statement to make, but I'm not into all that. It seems a bit sad to me."
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