Criterion / 1995 / R / 120min 1080p Full Frame 1.33:1 English Monaural

“If I don’t draw for a while, I get really crazy. I get really depressed and suicidal if I don’t get to draw. But then sometimes when I’m drawing I feel suicidal, too, so . . . .”
-R. Crumb

The image of Robert Crumb’s hunched frame, thick glasses, protruding adam’s apple, and shabby, 1940’s door-to-door salesman style of dress seems to have become the poster-personification of artistic psychosis. He is undoubtedly a disturbed individual who enjoys piggyback rides on shapely women and openly admits masturbating to both Sheena: Queen of the Jungle and Bugs Bunny. He is also a bonafide genius whose work represents a singular perspective on 20th century American life. But genius is often hard to define, especially when it chooses to spring forth from someone as uniquely bizarre as Robert Crumb. So, when longtime friend and director Terry Zwigoff decided to make an intimate documentary about the roots of the disturbance, I think his intention was not to define Crumb or even to create a defense against the artist’s detractors, but merely to observe. And it’s one hell of an observation.

You’ve no doubt seen Crumb’s drawings, whether it be his iconic “Keep on Truckin’” graphic or his sexually charged Fritz the Cat comics. Upon further investigation into Crumb’s work, you notice his divisive depictions of race, his satirical condemnations of the sterilized, Donna Reed Show-esque facade that permeated postwar American culture, and, of course, his incomparable psychosexuality. Along with many other eccentric artists of the late 60s, Crumb co-founded the “underground comix” movement, which presented such satirical, and often psychedelic, representations of American life. But Crumb never really fit the mold of counterculture revolutionary. His aims didn’t seem to be that specific, and the ideology of his art wasn’t a protest in the typical sense, but rather a necessary act of catharsis.

As Zwigoff so adeptly observes in the film, the key to Crumb resides with his family, especially his two brothers, Charles and Maxon. All three brothers exhibited phenomenal artistic talent, and it was Charles (the eldest) who first “inspired” Robert to draw. As children, Charles would pressure Robert to collaborate on homemade comic books. They’d put their sisters to work as secretaries in their imaginary comics publishing company. Maxon was designated as “supply boy,” a demoralizing role he still begrudges. During an interview in the film, Charles observes that this sometimes-cruel sibling hierarchy probably stemmed from his “tyrant” of a father.

The brothers’ abusive upbringing contributed to their emotional imprisonment. Eventually it seemed they could only truly express themselves through their art. This outlet saved Robert, and to a lesser extent Maxon, but Charles Crumb remained behind, a recluse in his boyhood home. In Zwigoff’s interviews with Charles, we see a man who might be violently resentful towards his resignation if he weren’t an overmedicated husk. He might also have suffered from Asperger’s, though that is never implicitly stated in the film. (I also suspect with his acute graphomania that Charles might’ve been the inspiration for the killer in Se7en.) During these interviews, Robert sits in a nearby chair and listens (sometimes laughing awkwardly) as Charles talks dourly about his various suicide attempts and the wounds of his past. The scenes with Robert and Charles offer a fascinating and sad juxtaposition. Why did Robert make it and Charles not? What decides these things? Robert credits an LSD trip for awakening his mind to the ideas and images that would eventually become his trademark, so perhaps if Charles had discovered psychotropic experimentation first . . . .

Success hasn’t provided Robert complete adjustment, though. He still spends most of his waking hours occupying the canted corners of his mind, which makes interactions with the outside world a problem—especially with women, whom he seems to both worship and despise in undulating measures. In the film, Robert readily addresses his hostilities towards women during an interview with a journalist. His drawings of women—with their Amazonian features— are tailored to his specific sexual and emotional fetishes, and the scenarios are often violent and degrading. Zwigoff traces some of these fantasies to Robert’s childhood (a pair of cowboy boots attached to the stocky legs of his aunt, for example), but even Robert has trouble pinning down his own sexual proclivities. It’s interesting to see him interact with his wife and ex-girlfriends. He often places a hand on their shoulder or arm. Sometimes it seems as if he’s trying to understand them through touch, other times it’s as if he’s attempting to quiet them.

Looking at Crumb’s deeply personal work, it would be easy to label him a pornographer. To hear him explain his controversial depictions, it’s just something that must be released to the paper. That hardly placates his critics, though. The film is peppered with interviews with artists, publishers and friends who argue different sides of Crumb’s sexual and racial comics. Some label him a racist, pointing to pieces like Crumb’s faux advertisement for “Nigger Hearts” and others insist he’s a satirical humanist who is highlighting the base hypocrisy of modern American society. The film doesn’t presume to takes sides.

Though not quite as curmudgeonly as his friend Harvey Pekar (they bonded over obscure 20s and 30s jazz records), Crumb is emotionally unavailable even in the most basic of human interactions. In the film, we see Crumb at his warmest when he’s playing with his young daughter. However, connection with his teenaged son (also a talented artist) is difficult. What comes so easily and with such clarity for him through pen and paper is, in life, a near impossibility.

At the center of Zwigoff’s remarkable documentary, there lies an essential irony. With his antique tastes and sensibilities, Crumb has fetishized an unspecified time in America when kids didn’t plaster their bodies with corporate logos or blare “angry” music from their cars and boomboxes. Staring at his massive record collection, Crumb claims that in older music one can “hear the best part of the soul of the common people,” which, he explains, is something lost in modern music. He doesn’t even own a color TV. Of course, the irony is that someone like Crumb wouldn’t fit in any era. That’s his curse. In a few scenes, he can be seen sketching people in cafes, making snap judgments based on their clothing, demeanor, conversations, etc. The point being that no matter when he was, something would offend, as his discomfort comes from within. So, while his work brazenly faces the world, Robert Crumb is forever banished to the periphery.

Crumb comes to Blu-ray in its original full frame aspect ratio of 1.33:1. The transfer utilizes the AVC codec, takes up 36GB of space on the disc, and has a video bitrate of 35.21Mbps.

Criterion’s transfer was sourced from original, beautifully restored 16mm elements. If you’re curious what the film looked like prior to the restoration, check out the Unused Footage in the special features. While some dirt and debris remain (and one particularly bad scratch mid-film), it’s clear how much effort was put into the restoration. Black levels are solid and shadow detail is about as good as 16mm can offer. Colors are natural, with even skin tones and no bleeding. I noticed no banding or digital noise and the film’s grain structure remains perfectly intact.

Crumb is presented here in a 24-bit uncompressed English monaural track at 1152Kbps.

The 1.0 track delivers dialogue free of hiss and distortion, though you will hear the clatter of the film’s simple recording techniques. The music used in the film is taken from old vinyl recordings with lots of pops and cracks, but, of course, that is part of the film’s intentional texture. I believe this to be a perfect recreation of the theatrical experience.

The features for Crumb aren’t as plentiful as many of Criterion’s releases, but my affection for quality commentaries makes this a true quality over quantity situation. Though, I’m not sure watching Crumb three times in one day is good for the mind.

Commentary by Terry Zwigoff and Roger Ebert:
I love Ebert’s commentaries and this one from 2006 is no exception. As filmmaker and critic, the complimentary perspectives by Zwigoff and Ebert make for a very engaging commentary. It’s a great track.

Commentary by Terry Zwigoff:
This commentary by Zwigoff was specifically recorded for this Criterion release. Zwigoff doesn’t repeat too much of his original commentary with Ebert, so both tracks are worthwhile.

Unused Footage (52min):
Almost an hour of unused footage with optional commentary by Terry Zwigoff on selected scenes. Check out “Cheap Suit Serenaders” to see Crumb and Zwigoff’s band perform.

Stills Gallery:
A collection of on-set photographs. There are some interesting pictures here, but I would have liked more images of the drawings shown in the film.

The disc comes housed in Criterion’s standard clear Blu-ray case with a 24-page booklet featuring an essay by Jonathan Rosenbaum and original artwork and writings by the Crumb brothers. Also included is very cool reproduction of the artist “Talent Test” taken by Charles Crumb in 1961.

[Click images for full resolution captures]

Reviewed by: Pirate
Review Date: July 24th, 2010
Release Date: August 10th, 2010