Les Blank's documentary about Clifton Chenier, is a seemingly casual effort. It consists of following "The King of Zydeco" as he plays in clubs, cleans his back yard and jams with his cousin on a back porch: ordinary moments with no more obvious commentary than occasional titles translating the Creole and Cajun lyrics into English in a font that suggests it was made of twigs. The camera watches him, but it's up to other people to talk, until he addresses the camera directly at the 40-minute mark.
It's a documentary that calls more attention to its techniques, to its purity, than to its subject. Nonetheless, it is of obvious interest, both as a documentary of a particular time and place, and for the zydeco music that its subjects play in a fashion that seems as off-handed as the film.
It's a documentary that calls more attention to its techniques, to its purity, than to its subject. Nonetheless, it is of obvious interest, both as a documentary of a particular time and place, and for the zydeco music that its subjects play in a fashion that seems as off-handed as the film.