A great documentary, like any film, needs to erase the furniture you’re sitting on, the floor, the walls, the temperature of the room, hunger, stress, responsibilities, ego — the complete tangible and intangible context that exists off-screen.
Martin Scorses’s “No Direction Home,” is an incredible eraser. But when I initially sat down to review the two-part, 208-minute documentary that spans the early evolution of Bob Dylan’s career, I had my doubts.
I love much of Dylan’s music, from his self-titled debut with its witty folk standards to his more stream-of-consciousness lyrics of the mid-1960s and 1970s. “Subterranean Homesick Blues” is on my running play list in my iPod.