TWO VIEWS OF ‘LET’S GET LOST’ : Film Portrait Does Jazz a Disservice

Just over a year has passed since the body of Chet Baker was found outside the window of a hotel in the drug dealers’ area of Amsterdam. It was speculated that he might have been pushed by an unpaid pusher, but the door was locked from the inside, so it was then assumed he simply nodded off and fell. In any event, there were many who hoped that the violence Chet Baker had done to the image of the jazz musician would finally come to an end. But it was not to be; the image of this perennial junkie has now been perpetuated in “Let’s Get Lost,” a two-hour movie for the making of which no sensible reason can be found.

That the black-and-white film is technically well made is not in dispute. The irony is that Baker, toward the end, when asked how he has enjoyed making the movie, speaks as enthusiastically as his drug-sodden mind can let him. He does not realize that just as he has spent his life manipulating others, he has been manipulated into putting on film an unsparing portrait of a nasty, sociopathic junkie, a failure as husband (three times) and father and son, without a single redeeming feature--not even his music. He was a limited trumpeter, never responsible for any dramatic musical breakthroughs, and an even less talented singer who got away with it mainly through the James Dean comparisons and the young-white-hope hype.

There is plenty of evidence in the footage here of his early promise and later disintegration. Film maker Bruce Weber switches back and forth constantly between the young, handsome Baker and the ravaged, broken 57-year-old in the recording studio; the fact of his decline did not need to be dealt with so repetitiously.

Thrown out of three countries, his teeth lost in a fight in San Francisco, constantly in search of the next fix, Baker is described by a collection of girl friends, his third wife and various hangers-on in varying degrees of admiration and contempt. Ruth Young, his girl friend for 10 years, leaves an ugly impression of a woman almost as manipulative as Baker himself. Baker’s mother, unaware of the manner in which she is being exploited, is interviewed at her home in Stillwater, Okla. (Since the film came out, Baker’s family and Weber have reportedly not been on speaking terms.)

Chet Baker had only two loves in his life: music and drugs, and most likely the dope took precedence. Unlike Charlie Parker, a sometimes warm and affectionate man who did make several attempts to break loose from the habit, Baker freely admitted that his life style suited him fine.

One wonders what impression society may receive, 50 or 100 years from today, of the world of jazz in this century. With such evidence as “Lady Sings the Blues,” “ ‘Round Midnight,” “Bird,” and now “Let’s Get Lost,” it may be impossible to believe that any jazz people lived normal lives. The report that a documentary is being completed on Benny Carter (a healthy, happy living legend at 81) is welcome news indeed; it can’t come a moment too soon, and neither can the moment when “Let’s Get Lost” gets lost.