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LAST DAYS:
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Gus Van Sant Tackles Suicide
(and in the meantime,
saves his cinematic soul)
So here we have it, the final installment in Gus Van Sant’s ambitious (though some would say misguided) trilogy of death… “deluded” death, to be more exact, and mind you the distinction is an important one. First, there was 2002’s flawed but bold Gerry (death by a friend), followed closely by 2003’s masterful Palme d'Or-winning Elephant (death by a stranger). This year, however, Van Sant delivers Last Days, a piercing meditation on suicide that takes as it’s blueprint the final days in the life of enigmatic rocker, Kurt Cobain.
It’s definitely helpful to note that not only have all three films shared a variation on this common mortal theme, but they’ve also employed mostly improvised dialogue paired with purposefully sparse plots, each kept afloat by the absolutely stunning work of the trilogy’s gifted cinematographer, Harris Savides (Birth, Seven). Van Sant has seemed determined to shake off the stink of such uncommitted, artistic clunkers as Good Will Hunting and Finding Forrester (aka Good Will Hunting, Part 2), and now, almost impossibly, he seems to have done just that.
Last Days opens with the somber image of Michael Pitt’s Blake (our Cobain surrogate) wandering aimlessly through the woods near his secluded, northwestern mansion. He mumbles despondently to himself as he bathes and urinates in a nearby stream, and is less of a vital person here, really, than a wounded animal exhaustively searching for a quiet place to curl up and disappear. Those who watch closely will notice the inpatient bracelet still fastened to his wrist. With this, the viewer can assume that Blake (much like Cobain in the short days before his demise) has recently escaped from a drug rehabilitation center. Later, when he is shown shakily digging up a small cigar box near his home, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s probably hidden inside.
The majority of the film deftly catalogues the remainder of this slow descent, using a series of fluidly sustained tracking shots following Blake as he flounders in his own heroin-induced haze. We see him fumble with the preparation of what inevitably becomes an undercooked helping of instant macaroni and cheese. Then there is a comedic, yet oddly tender, encounter with a door-to-door salesman (Pitt is extremely strong here). And, yes, there is even Blake in his own practice space, yelping and scowling as he pounds away upon a whole slew of musical instruments, probably aware that he better soon get his fill of them. It’s what little interaction Blake commands with the people closest to him, however, that most makes this film so heartbreaking.
Four others are shown to be sharing Blake’s house during this dark and desperate time, most notably a fellow musician named Scott (Van Sant regular and former street hustler, Scott Green). His character most likely draws inspiration from Michael Dewitt (nicknamed Calli) who was the nanny of Cobain’s daughter at the time, and who is pictured quite memorably while wearing a dress upon the CD for Nirvana’s last official LP, In Utero. A seemingly gratuitous (at least, at first) homosexual encounter between Scott and another of the houseguests (Lukas Haas) also lends itself to this supposition.
As Calli was present in Cobain’s home at the time of his suicide, it becomes clear that his probable fictional counterpart, Scott, is the character that best has a chance at pulling Blake back from the proverbial edge. It’s quite disturbing, then, to see his ill-advised attempts at shielding his “fugitive” friend from the incessant calls requesting his whereabouts, or even his efforts at thwarting the private detective (Ricky Jay) sent by Blake’s absent wife, Blackie (quite clearly, the film’s refreshingly non-judgmental nod to Courtney Love).
As he did in Elephant, though, Van Sant chooses not to lay blame directly on any one situation or person, but simply observes from afar the various possible causes that might have lead to such tragedy. As Scott and the others quickly vacate the mansion towards the film’s end, the viewer is very much allowed to witness the regret in his eyes as he views Blake solemnly through a large and lonely window… pacing, alone, and fairly oblivious.
This moment readily recalls what may be the film’s most significant scene, an earlier visit from a label representative played by Kim Gordon of the seminal rock band, Sonic Youth. “Do you talk to your daughter?” she asks Blake. Then, with only the slightest bit of edge in her voice, she sadly adds, “Do you tell her you’re sorry for being a rock and roll cliché?” More or less, she never gets an answer, and it’s with this character’s exit that the viewer painfully discerns that Blake’s fate has long ago been sealed. The events that then play out in the final moments of Last Days are pretty much in line with the reality of what transpired with Cobain. This anticipation, however, does little to shield the undeniable sadness that must grow alongside it.
It’s curious, too (although not that unexpected), that Van Sant deems it appropriate in this film to reveal his own personal feelings about Cobain when, once Blake is dead, an apparitional and naked version of his spirit is seen briefly climbing upwards to a supposed (metaphorical?) heaven. It is a delicate and nearly problematic scene that, in the end, is completely warranted. For who can one blame, really, when a death is self-inflicted? What good can such accusations yield? Van Sant, more than any other filmmaker before him, appears to understand these delicate questions. And in this, quite possibly his greatest film, he humbly observes the want for a hope that, somehow, a great suffering has been extinguished… for everyone… everywhere.
* the above review appears in this month's issue of NATHAN, JR. (a Los Angeles-based film 'zine)
