Thelonious Monk, Straight No Chaser (1988)

Directed by Charlotte Zwerin Criterion

Spine #1265

Welcome to the first entry of The Criterion Chronicles, my attempt at immersing myself in the culture of film through a curated collection of unique and historical titles from around the world. As a completist, any type of “greatest of” list or an official collection has fascinated me, and The Criterion Collection is no exception. With the aim of “publishing important classic and contemporary films from around the world in editions that offer the highest technical quality and award-winning, original supplements” the collection is THE starting point for any budding cinephile, one in which I will attempt to complete in full. I plan to use this section of The Director’s Lens to document my film analysis within the pure scope of Criterion releases, giving a sense of what makes these films unique and perhaps answer the “why?” of their inclusion into such a vanguard of cinema.

In fact, as I have returned to physical media collecting, the greatest presence on my shelf are titles released by Criterion, and specifically I find the music documentaries particularly fascinating. Whether it’s The Last Waltz, Festival or Moonage Daydream, this genre seems to present a unique point of view that transports the viewer directly into a historical moment with the artist, providing a true sense of personality to these immortals who I have only had the opportunity to hear perform but never see. With the of music-documentary so close to my heart, I felt if only right to start The Criterion Chronicles with the recently added to the collection Thelonious Monk, Straight No Chaser.

“Sometimes we’d take the first take, sometimes the second but never the third. He’d say once you play it the first time that’s where the feeling and everything is, after that it starts going downhill…If you don’t hit your note that’s on you, you’d have to hear that the rest of your life.”

Like a record turning one of his classic bebop melodies, Thelonious Monk is a man constantly spinning in circles. Onstage at his piano, backstage with his band or meandering through a bustling foreign airport terminal, his body is revolving, perhaps to allow the turntable needle in his brain to play the compositions out of his mind and into the world.

In this well-mixed cocktail of a music documentary that stirs two-parts Direct Cinema with one-part traditional talking head interviews and a dash of Ken Burns photography effects, Thelonious Monk, Straight No Chaser offers a quick historical perspective of the jazz master’s place within the genre’s cannon while primarily showcasing his quixotic personality and his relationships to those closest to him.

As with the most successful music documentaries, the true joy is found in the performances on screen, allowing generations of viewers a glimpse into the past to see an artist in flesh and bone. When seen onstage, the camera, which is set level to Monk’s hands at the piano, provides an up-close glimpse at the explosive quality of his fingers on the keys, forcing your eyes to keep pace with the tempo of his classic songs. The lens takes us so close to to the action you can almost feel the sweat that Monk is constantly wiping off his brown during measure breaks.

Performances are certainly at the heart of this film, whether archival footage or members of Monk’s entourage recounting their own history of jazz’s ebbs and flows of style with recreated recitations at their instruments. But as critical as the concert footage is to the film, the narrative spine is the intercutting fly-on-the-wall footage director Charlotte Zwerin intersperses throughout the film. Shot in 1967, the grainy black and white segments focus on Monk at the twilight of his career in New York, Atlanta and on a European tour. When these moments arrive the camera bounces around the players with Monk at the forefront. The lens catches the levity backstage of Monk joking with his bandmates, his personality when not at his piano and taking in a bandmates solo, his routine before taking the stage, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette or his presence entering a studio to feel out the space. When he speaks in these moments a deep mumble only allows you to understand every other word forcing you to intently focus on the figure he is. An electric moment occurs towards the end of act 1 where Monk interacts with Teo Macero, producer from Columbia Records. The back-and-forth interplay between artist and producer perhaps unveils the most honesty of Monk seen in the whole picture. Moments where Thelonious is talking shop, his voice the clearest throughout the entire runtime as if music and discussing notes allows him to be his most communicative. The studio is where you see the real Monk onscreen, his artistry and his frustrations all unveiled which reaches a crescendo in a scene where he learns his producer wasn’t rolling the tape because he thinks Monk wants a rehearsal first.

Fortunately, the typical documentary style of deploying talking heads to recount the historical narrative is used sparsely and only a few individuals are called upon to give their first-person accounts: Monk’s manager, bandmates, son. By keeping the cast of characters small, Zwerin gets insightful and personal stories that make their dialogue incredibly intimate, like his son who refers to his father as Thelonious rather than dad while speaking of his mental health struggles.