One of the Best Musicals of the 90s Deserves a Second Shot

With apologies to Evita and Newsies, the best live-action movie musical of the 1990s isn’t the most obvious one. In the middle of that decade, filmmaker Todd Haynes set out to make a movie about David Bowie, and wound up with an audacious glam rock saga far more exciting than any traditional biopic. The eventual blend of fact and fiction at the center of Velvet Goldmine resulted in a riveting look at the tension between reality and mythmaking behind pop stardom, and that blend has only grown more fascinating with time.

Prior to embarking on his third feature, Haynes was an ambitious young director with a rising profile thanks to his fiery AIDS drama Poison and the feminist thriller Poison, which helped put Julianne Moore on the map. His work sat at the center of an emerging wave of projects deemed “New Queer Cinema” by critic B. Ruby Rich, who eventually wrote a book on the subject. As Haynes sought opportunities to work on a bigger scale, with the help of his faithful producer Christine Vachon and Killer Films, Velvet Goldmine followed a circuitous path to production.

Bowie’s androgynous stage and open discussion of his bisexuality inspired many ardent fans to embrace their identities in the 1970s and 1980s, a feat that Haynes hoped to blend with dynamic musical numbers and an emotional core. But Bowie, who reportedly wanted to commission his own biopic, refused to license his music.

This outcome led Haynes to craft a fictionalized take on the character named Brian Slade (Jonathan Rys Meyers in one of his most striking performances), whose iconoclastic stardom begins to unravel after he fakes his own death as a publicity stunt in the early 1980s. Years later, a queer journalist who remembers those days (Chirstian Bale) lands an assignment to figure out what happened to Slade after he vanished from the spotlight. His ensuing research, which sends him tumbling down a rabbit hole of candy-colored memories, borrows its structure from an unlikely source: Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane, a movie that has nothing to do with music or counterculture. But the homage works brilliantly nonetheless.

The proverbial “greatest movie of all time,” directed by a child prodigy of the theater world at the age of 25, may not seem like the most obvious template for a dazzling musical drama about the roots of glam rock. But Haynes, whose references encompass everything from Jean Genet to Douglas Sirk and Oscar Wilde, has always spliced various influences into his work with extraordinary results that scrutinize popular culture with fresh observations. The Kane conceit in Velvet Goldmine is on a continuum with Cate Blanchett’s next-level turn as Bob Dylan in I’m Not There. (It also sets the stage for future explorations of the way underground art migrates to the mainstream, an idea that propels his documentary Velvet Underground.)

Welles’ movie finds a reporter seeking the authenticity at the root of a domineering, larger-than-life figure and finding it (or not finding it) in a buried childhood memory. With Velvet Goldmine, Haynes explores how the rebellion of rock ‘n’ roll enabled multiple generations to escape the boundaries of their upbringing and discover their true selves. Many of the characters who recall Slade’s career, from his ex-lover (Toni Collette) to an estranged fellow musician (Ewan McGregor), tap into the paradox of an inspirational creator who existed at odds with the world. Slade’s personal relationships never jeopardize his long-term impact. Despite his reckless final chapters, he remains a revered figure. Through the lens of Bale’s character, the movie touches on the cathartic power of art and its potential to develop new meaning with time. That sets up a final twist with poignant implications for everyone involved.

Revisiting Velvet Goldmine in recent weeks, I’m struck by what a gorgeous, entertaining spectacle Haynes managed to piece together, even though critics were mixed on it at the time and the box office returns were minimal. Its lavish stage performances feature intoxicating songs written by Brian Eno, the Stooges, T. Rex, and others – take that, Bowie! – while the glitter-plus-leather pants aesthetic of the costumes, by the legendary Sandy Powell (who would later win three Oscars), dazzles in every frame. It’s an unique gem of a movie that, like Bowie’s own cryptic legacy, feels timeless.

The very existence of Velvet Goldmine speaks volumes about the extraordinary abilities of Killer Films, the production powerhouse co-founded by Vachon and Pamela Koffler 30 years ago. When I asked Haynes for his thoughts on that legacy, he didn’t mince words. “I don’t know two people with more integrity, intelligence and commitment,” he wrote me via email this week. “Their incredible partnership and profound respect for each other are models for how risk-taking, intelligence—and let’s face it, the force of great women—can succeed in contributing such a remarkably high caliber of films to the world.”

Whatever it took to get made, American cinema is richer because of it. Regardless of Bowie’s disinterest in Velvet Goldmine, the movie remains a tribute to his impact over the years. When Bowie died in 2016, Haynes was contacted for comment by New York Magazine. “Bowie redefined what was possible as a popular artist,” he said. “Our lives and our world will never be the same.” Be that as it may, we still have the music, and we still have Velvet Goldmine.

Velvet Goldmine screens alongside a conversation with Killer Films co-founders Christine Vachon and Pamela Koffler at the Playhouse this Friday at 7:30 p.m. Tickets are available here.