A protean physical phenomenon and never less than a spectacular camera subject, Bob Dylan has met with uneven success in movies. Given his imagistic radiance and gifts of storytelling compression, he would seem the most naturally cinematic of artists. (Compare the dramatic punch of Dylan’s “Hurricane” to Denzel Washington’s.) And clearly he has some ambitions in this direction, participating, in various capacities, in at least nine films. Yet outside of the documentaries, onscreen Dylan is all odd angles.¹

In scripted roles like those in Hearts of Fire² (1990) and Masked and Anonymous³ (2003), he perversely offers himself as an object of contemplation only to play the Sphinx.⁴ He does nothing to ingratiate himself, yet you can’t stop looking at him: not since Buster Keaton have we been treated to so great a stone face. This powerful anticharisma becomes something of a running gag in Masked and Anonymous:⁵ his impassivity becomes a scrim onto which the other characters—and the audience—project their dreams and desires.