Each of John Updike's four Rabbit novels concludes with a one-word sentence, a condensed, almost ideogrammatic summation of the moral state of the hero, his nation and, perhaps, his creator. The first book, ''Rabbit, Run,'' published in 1960, left Harry Angstrom, the former high school basketball star, in flight and in flux: it ends with the breathless, subjectless verb ''Runs.'' A decade later, ''Rabbit Redux'' faded out with an anxious question -- O.K.?'' -- as though both author and character were seeking reassurance after the marital and social upheavals of the 60's. By the end of the 70's, with the Reagan presidency on the horizon and his father-in-law's Toyota dealership thriving, Harry Angstrom could settle, with satisfied amazement, into the comfort and complacency of worldly success: the last word in ''Rabbit Is Rich'' is ''His.'' Finally, 10 years ago, as his maker pushed poor Rabbit, too young at 56, toward his final rest, the two men let go of each other with a sigh of resignation, regret and perhaps a measure of relief: ''Enough.''
2003 (last graf, Masked & Anonymous review):
And ''Masked & Anonymous'' works best as a meditation on, and a tribute to, his mysterious, implacable self. When he sings, he is in very good voice, and the band behind him is fiery and tight. The soundtrack is filled out by covers of some of his best-known songs, in languages from Japanese to Italian to Turkish, and the movie includes part of an a cappella ''Times They Are A-Changin' '' sung by a wide-eyed young girl. At the end, Mr. Dylan -- I mean Jack Fate -- sits on a bus, musing on what things do and don't mean, and listens to himself sing ''Blowin' in the Wind,'' which is where the answer, my friend, still is.
Today (last graf, I'm Not There review):
“Live in your own time.” That’s the advice young “Woody Guthrie” hears from a motherly woman who offers him a hot meal and a place to sleep. It’s sensible advice — he’s daydreaming of the Depression in the middle of the space age — but also useless. It’s not as if anyone has a choice. To slog through the present requires no particular wit, vision or art. But a certain kind of artist will comb through the old stuff that’s lying around — the tall tales and questionable memories, the yellowing photographs and scratched records — looking for glimpses of a possible future. Though there’s a lot of Bob Dylan’s music in “I’m Not There,” Mr. Haynes is not simply compiling golden oldies. You hear familiar songs, but what you see is the imagination unleashed — the chimes of freedom flashing.
I'm no Donald Foster, but I do think it's interesting that Scott ended his last two reviews of Dylan-themed movies with lyrical references. A subconscious nod to Updike's Rabbit habit? I'd like to think so.
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