Seymour: An Introduction movie review (2015) | Roger Ebert (2024)

The title of the new documentary directed by and featuringEthan Hawke provides a vague indication of the work’s eventual assets andliabilities. On one level, the title is straightforward: the movie doesintroduce viewers to Seymour Bernstein, a classical pianist in his 80s who, atthe midpoint of his life, gave up public performances and became a teacher ofpiano instead. Then there’s the allusion to J.D. Salinger’s novella, an accountof the precocious genius of the Glass family, by now something of an Americanliterary legend. Although the evocation of Salinger and his creation evokesintriguing associations of reclusiveness and talent and all that, in the endthere’s not much here to do with Salinger or his character: the title plays ona coincidence, and is in a sense a bit cute and/or pretentious (my ownpreferred term is “know-somethingish”).

Hawke might have more appropriately calledhis short feature “Seymour: An Interrogation,” because while the film lays outBernstein’s life story and his perceptions on art, and explores his talent,Hawke makes clear from the outset that he chose Bernstein as a subject (the twomet when seated next to each other at a dinner party) in order to explorequestions hyphenate Hawke (the “Boyhood” and “Training Day” co-star has accruednot just several directorial credits but is a published author as well) hasabout his own artistic practice. “I didn’t know what was authentic,” Hawkeadmits of his own work in an early conversation with Bernstein. He apparentlysees something very authentic in his subject.

In limning the world of classical music during the period inwhich Bernstein practiced, then abandoned, performance, Hawke gives viewers thepicture of a very different New York City than exists today: a Manhattan, orat least a pocket of Manhattan, both aesthetically refined and at least mildlyaffluent. In a café, Bernstein reminisces with an adult former student whoneglected his lessons to the extent that he became “incorrigible;” thiswell-heeled fellow is Michael Kimmelman, now an art critic for “The New YorkTimes.”

Throughout the picture, Bernstein interacts with genteel folk whoquietly deplore what they see as the American perception of art andart-making—“they want the ‘Flashdance’ fallacy,” one sighs, alluding to atalent that flies out of a bottle like a genie with no craft or labor involved.In between these exchanges, Bernstein works with young students, counting outmeasures, contemplating accents, working out the problem of how to get one’spinkie to just this particular distant piano key in time to make the musicalphrase coherent. Like Jody Lee Lipes’ recent documentary “Ballet 422,” Hawke’smovie patiently demonstrates that Art Needs Work. But it also needs philosophy,and Hawke, while never so louche as to just up and ask the reason Bernsteingave up the limelight to impart his wisdom to others instead, prods the waysBernstein’s struggles to be a great performer abraded his desire to be a decenthuman being.

“Jackson Pollock and…Marlon Brando were all pretty notoriouslyhorrible people," Hawke suggests toBernstein at one point. “They were. And there are musicians who were monsters,”Bernstein responds. “Glenn Gould, for example,” Hawke offers. Bernstein takesthe bait, and offers up some spicy Gould dish. For Bernstein, the tragedy ofGould’s approach is that he’s only able to hear Gould’s playing: “I don’t hearBach,” Bernstein says. Hawke lets it lay, not pursuing the question of whetherthere’s any value in hearing Gould qua Gould. Also curious is, given how one ofthe film’s threads seems to deplore the trappings of fame and acclaim him,Bernstein’s pleasure in having apparently played a small part in gaining aknighthood for the British pianist Clifford Curzon.

I don’t think thecontradictions implied here can’t be resolved or at least fruitfully explored;it’s that Hawke doesn’t seem to think so. So the movie kind of flits along—ifone wanted to be cruel one would use a word like “dilettante”—pleasantly andinformatively enough without ever lifting off. Until the last fifteen minutesor so, in which Bernstein, having been convinced to play a semi-private recitalfor Hawke’s theater company, performs and discusses Schumann’s “Fantasia.”Hawke, in a rather disarming display of cinematic virtuosity, cuts fromBernstein playing the piece, Bernstein directly addressing the camera,Bernstein directly addressing a live audience, keeping the music on a throughline for the most part as Bernstein lays out its history and its significancefor both himself and music itself. A prior pronouncement by mystic AndrewHarvey, “I had an experience of music creating the whole universe,” suddenlyseems a little less dippy. The effect of the sequence is both pedagogicallyrewarding and aesthetically transportive. It lifts the movie into a higherrealm.