Me and Mrs. Smith

It’s as painful as it is inspiring to watch Dream of Life, the documentary about Patti Smith, a true artist from the top of her scraggly head to the tips of her black-booted toes. On the one hand, you go away with potent language percolating in your blood, making you want to make something, or do something, or just be something great. But on the other hand, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve seen a cultural relic, that we’re so jaded these days someone of her passion would be smothered in our smug blanket before she could even begin, let alone achieve the right to be documented with an entire film. I wanted to believe there was no acting, that she continued to traipse through Rimbaud’s garden reciting angry couplets long after the grainy filmstock was all used up. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that they might have rehearsed it. Done it twice, or three times, gotten the etching from a different angle. My cynicism is poison. I want to believe what I see sometimes, but I’m unable to do so. I’d like to say that I came home and smoked something and drank something strong and wrote something brilliant after seeing that film, but I’m unable to do so. The reality is, I made a hot crab dip (the kind you bring to office potlucks, yes I actually had all the ingredients on hand) and ate half of it all by myself while watching Project Runway. Then I passed out in my clothes. That last part is kind of rock and roll. Right?