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Blank Remembered by James Dalessandro
The prolific documentarian Les Blank, circa 1990 photo: courtesy L. Blank
ANOTHER AMERICAN TREASURE HAS
left the table. When stories are written of Bay Area filmmakers—the Mount Rushmore of Coppola, Lucas, Philip Kaufman—Les Blank, who died in April, at 77 from bladder cancer, according to his son, Harold, rarely makes the list.
But, gven the breadth of Blank’s work, three decades of observations of characters so fascinating and characters so mundane that the latter becomes the former, he belongs at the pinnacle of storytellers. (See previous CineSource article on Blank.)
I briefly knew him and am forever touched by his art and character. In 1973, I founded the Santa Cruz Poetry Festival with Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Ken Kesey, with musicians Charles Lloyd and Anthony Braxton, which one critic called ‘a counter-culture circus.’
Which led me to Les, through his ex-wife, Gail. Les thought the poets, including Charles Bukowski and local legend Jack Micheline, might make an interesting documentary.
He was the quietest man, and quietest drinker, I ever knew. He invites you to prattle on without guilt. We drank a bucket of Jack Daniels, one sipping shot at a time. Many times. His expression and focus never wavered. He absorbed every detail of every story I told him as if it mattered. I called him the human tape recorder.
Les Blank relaxing at his studio above Down Home Music (a match made in heaven) in El Cerrito, California. photo: D. Blair
Through Les I discovered the power of documentary film. I learned about American music in “The Blues According to Lightnin’ Hopkins.” There’s a scene of Hopkins and Mance Lipscomb on a rundown farm, jamming on acoustic guitars, that tells you more about the Blues than a thousand critics could ever convey.
Blank’s insight into music’s place in the American social fabric would alone make him a national treasure. His “Dizzy Gillespie” celebrates the glory of jazz. “Hot Pepper” captures the joy of Cajun music through Zydeco accordionist Clifton Chenier. His rendering of the obscure in “Sprout Wings and Fly,” about the Appalachian fiddler Tommy Jarrell, demonstrates that genius is everywhere.
With “In Heaven There Is No Beer,” Blank makes us love the polka and the people who worship it. Years later, when I wrote The House of Blues Radio Hour – someone paid me to listen to the blues – I offered a silent thanks to Les for giving me an enduring love affair with America’s greatest music.
Werner Herzog in front of a boat he brought down from Colombia for 'Fitzcaraldo' (1982) in a scene from Blank's 'Burden of Dreams' (1982). photo: courtesy L. Blank
Blank could be immortalized for his titles. “Garlic is as Good as Ten Mothers” and “Gap Toothed Women” provide their own poetic loglines. Put me in the column of those who believe his documentary “Burden of Dreams,” about Werner Herzog’s obsession to make “Fitzcarraldo”, about a man obsessed with building an opera house in a South American jungle, is better than Herzog’s film.
During filming, a war broke out between indigenous tribes using guns that Herzog had given them to work on the movie. Herzog challenged Blank to document their raids. Several locals offered to kill Klaus Kinski, the film’s angry star, if Herzog desired.
Kinski’s book on "Fitzcarraldo" expresses the fate he imagined for Herzog: piranhas tearing his flesh, hordes of red ants invading his eye sockets. Blank survived Herzog to make the greatest movie ever made about a man eating his footwear, the subtly entitled “Werner Herzog Eats His Shoe,” with the culinary finale at Berkeley’s Chez Panisse.
I once told Les about my riding to my carpenter’s job on the Market Street trolley, where I eavesdropped and fantasized about the lives of fellow passengers. An old black trolley operator told stories to anyone near him. I wanted to make a movie about them: part fact, part fiction. He said “show me.” So we rode the length of Market Street and back. Over and over. I spent my time watching Les watch them.
Blank's quiet but powerful gaze could cut right into you. photo: D. Blair
He went off to make another movie, and I went off to other things. I never saw him again, but kept touch through his films. His movies capture our most primal elements. He is the master of bittersweet, for while his films celebrate lives rarely seen or barely recognized, only through Blank’s work do they find some temporal brand of immortality; a polka dancing, gap-toothed, blues wailing, shoe eating, garlic infused handprint on our lives.
At the risk of felony cliché, we will not see his likes again.
James Dalessandro is a writer, screenplay writer, producer, director and teacher living in Marin County and can be reached .