The cinematic climate seems to be such that if a movie’s been made it’s likely some sort of remake. An adaptation from a book or a play. A biopic. A television show from 30 years ago of which nobody cares to be reminded. Allen Ginsberg based his creations on little more than his own emotional fervencies, sexual adrenaline, psychic hardships, and desperate desire for expression. Maybe a little Whitman structuralism, but mostly the music of his mind. Howl is, if anything, one of the most famous poems of all time, and certainly number one of the past [arguably veracious] years. At least a half century. But the new film, starring James Franco as Ginsberg (he loves to play a gay), is a beautiful visual ode to both the man and the work. The film does not participate in the communal heave of aforementioned remaking, but rather a promise to remember something worth remembering, a painterly portrait, and a fiercely spoken rendering. It might not be so much a film as a cinematic concrete poetic communique plus historical reenactment. Or something. Whatever it is it’s as powerful as it could have been. Jon Hamm is as handsome and clean as ever, and Franco’s portrayal is as perfect as Hamm’s hairline. The premiere at IFC, sponsored by Woolrich Woolen Mills, left a star-studded audience speechless, which makes total sense, as everything there is to say had more or less just been said.

KEYWORDS: allen ginsberg, film, james franco, Movies