Because maybe it is Kurt Cobain that those interested would follow the singer-songwriter's every move, muttering and interacting over the course of a ninety minute film that such a film could be made. A film whose focus is not on this singer-songwriter, but the camera that tracks him, pulls him, stops when he stops, lingering like a stray awaiting a treat, or a viewer inspired by what amounts to a cine-poem.
I was prepared to file this film under "Get to Later" at the thirty minute mark, but just before then I began to care about the director's decisions, even though we know how things turns out. The singer-songwriter's compound doesn't hurt either: an old, grungily furnished wood and stone mansion in the Pacific Northwest, on whose grounds is a studio that looks like a submerged house, with only the attic showing. Tip of the iceberg, so to speak. The rest is up to us, what we bring to it. Us and our imaginations.
