User Reviews

Bruce Weber's obscure documentary (currently on two screens at New York's Film Forum) on Chet Baker is the best possible way for those who aren't terribly familiar with his work or who he was- like myself- and I'm sure will more than please his avid fans out there. For the former, Baker is one of the "cool" west coast jazz pioneers, who defied some expectations while still being dismissed by many east coast (NY) jazz aficionados. Truth be told, Baker isn't entirely my cup of tea (very talented, of course, though I won't be listening to him as frequently as Coltrane or Parker or even Armstrong). This out of the way, Baker the man is an endlessly fascinating individual, one of those artistic forces who made life a hell for those around him, but also was a real intuitive musician, who when not trying to fix his dental problem, or drug problem, or problem with the law in other countries, he could play his trumpet or sing his soft melodies any time, anywhere. It's a major credit to him that the quality of his performances of the period of the film's present tense (1987-88) is not too far from that of his prime in the 50s and 60s. But Weber isn't simply out to show him performing his songs. Like a jazzman himself, Weber is into improvisation with his choice in jagged but smooth angles with the camera.

Aside from the intrigue that comes in showing Weber interviewing his past friends and fellow musicians (some who have simple stories like "he could play much faster than me, etc etc", and others that are darkly funny, like how he could have sex with a fellow musician's girlfriend in the dark without the other musician knowing after a five second lapse), ex-wives and female counterparts (it runs the gamut- those who care deeply about him, but have been hurt, and even a singer who is a bit more than bitter, but wise, to Baker's ways), and even his kids, we see the man himself with no punches pulled. Baker, with a face as chiseled as Clint Eastwood's and with twice the number of stories to tell, and a slightly wavering way of talking where one's not sure if he might slip into sleep mid-exposition. We see him talk of his time in the army, where he disarmingly (no pun intended) got out of duty while on a close-call avoiding the nut-house. We see his tales of being busted in Europe and spending over a year in jail. He even talks in a bittersweet tone about his kids and about fallen musicians and friends of his.

Most captivating, though, is the issue of his teeth, which becomes Weber's Rashomon tool of technique. It's not enough that Weber already slips so well into an aesthetic that I've rarely seen anywhere else in documentaries, where we get a plethora of images in several seconds *without* montage, and scenes of Baker with friends/kids/admirers (Flea is one of them) knocking around town at night that are real but close to feeling like it shouldn't be this real. Weber also throws in the crucial element of Baker as a multi-layered man with more than one persona to him, notably to his ex-wives. He tells the story of how he got his teeth knocked out, fighting with five black guys in a bad drug deal situation on the streets of LA. It sounds simple enough, as one of those wacky but dead-serious stories those in the jazz world, or just music in general, end up having when dependent on drugs (in this case heroin). But one girlfriend/singer says something else, that it had to do with Baker being given a specific 'lesson', to "take away what's most important", which was his mouth. But then even another says something completely different, at least I think so, and it's here that Weber makes Let's Get Lost such a complex peek (just a peek) into this man.

To be sure, there are times questions are asked and the response is just "lets not go into that", which is fair. Yet one comes away with Let's Get Lost with a pure impressing on who Chet Baker was, in a sense; he's a legendary musician in some circles, but also spent years on welfare when he couldn't play; he had one wife who was half Pakistani and half-Indian, who is rarely mentioned in the film; the kids don't show up much into the film until the last section, with more time spent around the mother(s) than Chet himself. But it all adds up to a sense, which is all that Weber could really get. It's cool as a good drink, and all about a man I won't soon forget.

I remember seeing and loving this movie when it played at Film Forum in NYC back in the late 80's. It was recently re-released for a limited engagement so I took my wife to see it (again, at Film Forum). Almost twenty years later, it's just as beautiful and heartbreaking to watch. The brilliance of this movie is that you don't have to be jazz or Chet Baker fan to enjoy it -- my wife and I have a marginal interest in jazz and we loved it. It's a brilliant portrayal of how talent, youth and beauty are destroyed by excess, and you'll feel both awe and pity for the late Mr. Baker. DVD is supposed to come out at the end of the year -- rent it, you won't be sorry.

In the 1950's, cool was the only way to fly, and Chet Baker was what James Dean always wanted to be. Those cool cat days, where the "cool" kids of today would be seen as jerks, sissies, geeks, nerds or worse, had a very restrictive behavioral code...you kept your icy cool at all times in a very narrow emotional range no matter what happened, and never acted beneath your age or silly or goofy, both of which are so commonplace in today's arrested-development kids of all ages. That detached air was the very essence of cool then, along with the ducktail hair, the jeans, the smokes rolled up in a t-shirt sleeve, the coffee bars, the hot rods, and the gals.....with their angora sweaters that balled up when felt up. Those were the glory days shown in this film that were so attractive to us then. Every day a salad day, but those soon turned into grass days and then into poppy days for poor Chet.

Chet was all of that cool cat essence early on, and so much more for jazz lovers, especially in his recordings with Russ Freeman arrangements and accompaniment. The Okie Adonis Baker had almost no education or sophistication and was so easy, soft and simple cool, too simple and easy.......and he became a living sucker perfectly ripe for the easy plucking by promoters, fellow musicians and fame-loving men and women alike. And was he ever plucked, but he didn't resist too much as his soft, sad personality was like a blotter....a reflection of what life happened around him but not a significant happening in itself, other than his unique musical expressions.

In the film, it was plain to see that the last 20 years of his life were the killer drug years, as in 1967-68 he was seen to still look and sound good. It all went downhill from there, but the soul-sensitive voice, the soft trumpet toning that was always more an extension of his voice than a separate instrument, were still intact and probably more sensitive and sadly expressive than ever. Yes, Chet was a sad man of obvious low self esteem common to kids raised in near poverty, but shame and embarrassment for his many flaws had been well beaten out of him by life at the end. He was, as were many in his world, of the character and in the environment that made him an easy target for any addiction that allowed him the freedom to lose himself into his music and be cooler to himself and to the vices common to his world.... fast women, hard drugs, and getting by on his talent alone without having to work hard for a living. Whatever was easiest and felt best was always what Chet did and, and as with many of the most talented in any endeavor, he failed at most of these except for his music, and his resulting God-may-take-me-at-any-time-who-cares? malaise was clearly present and almost pleading for it near the end when answering interviewer questions in a drugged-out stupor.

I think he fell out of that hotel window in one of his drug stupors and died from it, on purpose or not. Simple as that, knowing he was a deep-in-a-dream junkie. No embellishment to it for effect is probable, like he did so often for sympathy or for a few extra bucks he never seemed to save from working a thousand gigs all over the world in 40 years. I just hope his wife Carol and his 3 kids saw some money from the big nostalgia CD sales resulting from this film. They sure looked as though they could use it. From their share of the proceeds from my Chet CD collection alone, they should be a lot better off than they looked in the film.

Roland's on Steiner in the Marina and The University Hideaway on upper Fillmore in San Francisco were my early hangouts in those days, and I can still feel Chet's mood near there on cool, foggy SF evenings that are so common there even if Chet is long gone, along with those old places. With enough time, his many failures in his personal war with life will be forgotten by all until only his great music remains to mark his legend.

Let's Get Lost could have so easily been done badly. Intense fandom doesn't often make for objectivity, and the tragic-artist-gone-to-seed narrative is so, so tired. But this film kicks those limitations right over. It's tough about the ugly facts of Chet Baker's life as a liar, user, and junkie. At the same time, it never allows the viewer to forget the intense beauty Baker created as a musician, and embodied as a young man of perfect allure.

There are images I'll never forget: the expressions of his family as they listen to his music, his ex-wife lost in remembered pleasure; his daughter, pained; his dead-ringer son, uncomfortably smiling. The older, ravaged Baker, in the back seat of a convertible with two women, murmuring to them like he's in a dream. The stills of he and his second wife, both so stunning and so clearly in love, burning for each other. And more than that, the music, aching and romantic, and always so lonely, always about longing for some woman in some place that's beyond reach.

I am grateful to Bruce Weber for creating this film. It's why I go to the movies like some people go to the mountains or the sea, to church or to some lover's arms: it got me lost.

We have to be grateful to Bruce Weber for giving us this film. Monetary gain could not have figured in on it, as jazz, in spite of the great artists it produces, could never attract the amount of people to make a venture like this profitable. The big bands of the thirties and forties had jazz musicians as members, and did incorporate some jazz solos in their arrangements, but could not be considered a jazz venue. They generated millions of dollars, because the dancing public was so vast, there was no TV, and the leaders were groomed to be lionised like movie stars. (See "The Trouble With Cinderella", Artie Shaw's autobiography on his disenchatment with stardom. Jazz was played in small clubs seating at the most two hundred people, while dance halls could accommodate as much as fifteen hundred dancers. Any footage of an important icon like Chet is welcome, but some scenes are not what they seem. The recording session is a staged event to simulate a record date. The opening scene on the beach sans Chet is gatutitous. Maybe Weber wanted to show the local Southern California beach scene that Chet loved. The scene in an amusement park with a stoned Chet on the "Dodgem" cars is puzzling. "Chet's women" add a great deal of interest to the film. His mother describes how the toddler Chet was transfixed by the sound of the big bands on the radio. Ruth Young daughter of a wealthy Hollywood producer, smitten with Chet and jazz, describes with an unusual lack of bitterness, the insane life of loving a junky, who was really in love with her inheritance and heroin, and made short shrift of her money to finance his drug taking. She sings briefly in the film and I thought showed great promise, but she failed to seek a career in music. Diane Vavra had no money for Chet to squander, but she filled in as someone knowledgable about music to help Chet. Carol Baker, "the long suffering wife" (and how she suffered) gave Chet three beautiful children, who Chet barely noticed, or provided for in his chaotic race to the grave. With all that said, what about the music? Well I can tell you that in an era of great heroic trumpet superstars, like Dizzy Gillespie, Roy Eldridge, Maynard Ferguson, and many others, who could dazzle you with notes in the highest register of the trumpet, and improvise incredible melodies in the upper register, and "scream" above a roaring fifteen piece band, Chet was not in that mode at all. He rarely practiced, had no high register, but wove a soft filagree of delightful improvisations on standard popular songs. In my opinion he reinvented trumpet playing in the fifties. His playing said, "Dizzy's great, but I do it this way." His movie star looks did not hurt his appeal one bit, and his singing which has many detracters, I think will prove to be more appreciated in years to come. I loved every note he played and sang when I first heard him in the fifties, and my appreciation and love for this man, grows every year.

See this film. Amazing to see how destructive genius can be. The film looks great, outstanding sound-track, great editing. I'm not really a jazz fan, but I loved watching and seeing this movie. It's going to be re-released this year.

The re-release of Let's Get Lost is simply a gift. Bruce Weber spent six months on the road with Chet Baker in 1987 to catch a glimpse of the enigmatic and ultimately elusive musician. The film noir feel to the documentary is evoked from the beginning with a sublimely beautiful shot of Baker's old and wizened face while sitting in the back of a convertible, his hair dancing in the wind. Even though he is sitting between two beautiful women, one being his partner at the time; Baker's melancholy is evident. With every breath Baker exudes the pain and tribulations of his fifty seven years. It is no mistake he found his home in Jazz, the perfect catharsis and sanctuary for someone of his sensibility.

His physical beauty as a young man is perfectly juxtaposed with the changed man we meet in the documentary. Yet even with his gaunt appearance and ambling speech, Baker still possesses a charm and charisma that is uniquely his own. It becomes clear as the documentary progresses that Baker left a lot of pain and heartbreak in his wake. Ex-wives and past girlfriends talk unkindly about him in one breath and praise him in the next. His magnetism was a godsend and a curse in the end.

Whatever is said about Baker what is undeniable is his musical prowess. His flair for the trumpet coupled with his beautifully sad voice are an irresistible combination. An appearance at Cannes with Bruce Weber during the opening of one of Weber's documentaries showcases a heartbreaking rendition of 'Almost Blue' at the after party. He silences the baying party goers before beginning and proceeds to close his eyes and expose his soul in front of the audience. It is moments like these that captivate the viewer. Let's Get Lost remains one of the finest musical documentaries ever made, up there with D.A. Pennebaker's 'Don't Look Back'.

This film is long overdue to be remastered and released on DVD. The VHS transfer seems quite lazily done. The opening title pretty much goes off the screen on my TV. Would love to see this film in all its glory once again.

"What's the problem here?" The voice, querulous and groggy, emerges from the darkness, aborting a smoky run-through of Elvis Costello's 'Almost Blue'. Bruce Weber's Oscar-nominated documentary concerns itself with the same question: what gnaws at Chet Baker, and just how did the feted pretty boy of the West Coast 'cool school' end up such a frail, hollow-cheeked wraith? The most obvious answer is: junk.

As fellow jazz trumpeter and addict Miles Davis observed in his autobiography, "musicians were considered hip in some circles if they shot smack"; the logic being that heroin might bestow some of the genius of Charlie Parker or Miles upon the user.

Though a fine player, Baker may have privately worried that he would never be taken as seriously as Miles (who predictably accused him of aping his licks). More than likely, he thought he needed a poppy or three to keep up: the serial seducer seduced - out of his looks and his teeth (courtesy of an unprompted assault from drug dealers, so he said), though hardly out of talent or charm. Nor intelligence: those baby blues still burn with roving, wily intensity.

A combination of cheekbones and intuitive musicianship (his intimate, androgynene croon being just as potent as his way with a horn) had originally propelled the former Gerry Mulligan Quartet sideman into the pantheon of jazz greats. But arguably it was William Claxton's famous photos of him relaxing between takes in the studio ("he looked like a Greek God") that sealed the deal: a classic example of the fully-packaged star. A white one. A very marketable jazz Elvis. Italian B-movie roles and sell-out concerts were his for the taking. By the time Let's Get Lost first emerged in 1989, he'd accrued a new generation of admirers for whom the legend of Baker's turbulent rise and fall only added to his cult appeal.

And there is a circularity here: Weber's studiedly monochromatic profile, all inky shadows and searing white-outs, replete with 'authentic' crackles on a modern soundtrack, was released during a decade in which 'cool', that most chimerical of concepts, had once again become a commodity, a negative onto which advertising execs and filmmakers etched received, homogenised visions of sleek 1950s style.

Baker is being sold twice over - first by opportunists, second by grave robbers. Albeit, slightly premature ones: unlike James Dean or Neal Cassady, this 'doomed, beautiful youth', a living Kerouac creation, was still very much alive at the time Weber dug him up, and the prince-turned-skid-row denizen is not an altogether pretty picture.

A portrait emerges of an arch manipulator who conned his way out the army, then into the hearts of a string of emotionally and physically abused wives, lovers and friends. Fellow trumpet player Jack Sheldon talks of how Chet screwed his girlfriend, literally under his nose, while he wasn't looking. As in life, in art: here he is again, reducing Natalie Wood to silent orgasms with his playing in 1960's All The Fine Young Cannibals, while her jealous date smoulders beside her.

"Chet cons people" is the consensus from more than one party. "He has the ability to elicit sympathy - and it's all a big act." The story of what happened to Baker's teeth is similarly dismissed as "Typical Chet, gaining sympathy for himself. Someone kicked his ass for his manipulating ways".

It's no surprise to discover that these wounded women, rather than focus on the common enemy, an absent father to children by different mothers, reserve most of their spleen for each other. Ruth Young for instance, Baker's torch-singing girlfriend for 10 years, is "that bitch - his downfall." Interviewed separately, Baker lets it all wash over him. Mainly, because the adoring, highly partisan Weber (for whom Baker's iconic, homoerotic appeal was obviously meat and potatoes) hardly ever gives him a good grilling, happy to let the former jailbird seduce him along with everybody else.

"Sometimes Chet would tell a story and we would be spellbound, but the next day we'd find out it wasn't even true," says Weber, who would simply prefer to be in love, and fascinated, with his quarry. "It was about being illusioned and disillusioned and illusioned again by a hero". The irony, of course, is that the filmmaker, whose hugely influential black-and-white fashion photography exemplifies a certain 1980s aesthetic, seems so oblivious to the fact he's being taken for a ride: the manipulator manipulated.

This is a swooning postcard from one poser to another, woozily segueing as if in an opiate stupor between interviews, verite-style recreations, archive footage and new studio performances (these latter scenes all but nudge us to check out how much Chris Isaak and Red Hot Chilli Peppers bassist Flea resemble Weber's hero). The approach might well echo jazz's free-form schematics, but unkinder descriptions might also include 'rambling and shapeless'.

The music, of course, is sublime, and it's as immaculately framed as you'd expect - though the best moments are those apparently caught on the fly; the unstaged and unframed: Baker in a nightclub patiently indulging young, wide-eyed jazz acolytes with warmth and humour; his appearance at a Cannes music festival. Pleads the promoter (after Baker stops playing because people aren't listening), "So many people want to hear you, and may never get the chance again!" Comes the deadpan reply, "I ain't dead yet."

That would happen a few months after filming ended, on Friday 13 May 1988. Aged 58, he had fallen out of a second-floor Amsterdam hotel window, hitting the pavement like a bum note. The local press reported that a 30-year-old man had been found with a trumpet. Even in death, he seduced them out of truth.

Fashion photographer Bruce Weber's lush, patchwork portrait of Jazz artist Chet Baker is more than just another show-biz biography of a self-destructive junkie. The romantic myth of Jazz itself is the true subject of the film, which unfolds in a fascinating, leapfrog structure at times even more elusive than Baker's own melancholy music. The musician himself is just out of reach, a vague outline of a man dimly revealed in candid interviews with friends, family, and other ardent admirers. Despite some often transparent idolization the film in no way whitewashes Baker's character, suggesting that he could be his own worst enemy, in particular around the many women in his life. Weber ignores the disparity between the singer's haunting good looks when young and the sad physical decline of his later years (his gentle, melodic voice would remain the same, even after losing all his teeth), choosing instead to capture some of the quiet energy of Jazz by allowing the music and imagery (beautifully photographed in black and white) to speak for themselves.

Can't miss it. How is structured and how intimate the scenes are is something I've never seen in any other documentary

I first saw Let's get lost on a VHS tape about 12 years ago. I was immediately struck by the amazing story of artistic success mixed with tragic drug addiction that made up Chet Baker's life's story as well as the haunting images of the aging musician.

I, like many others have been patiently awaiting a re-issue of this minor masterpiece on DVD. This past weekend (May 7, 2005) I found it at my favorite independent video store! I eagerly rented it in anticipation of how great it would look projected on my 90" screen by my high definition LCD projector. I was disappointed to discover that what I had rented was not a fresh, new, high quality transfer from an original film negative or print . but apparently a copy of a video tape, and not a particularly good one at that. Its softness, increased contrast and video artifacting was made all the more obvious by the high quality projection. The sound quality was mushy also, making conversations hard to follow. There were no revealing deleted scenes, because there were no special features at all. Pressing 'play' after dropping the disc into the DVD tray simply launched the movie and only the original film credits rolled at the end.

I can't help thinking that Mr. Weber and/or whoever else owns the original material of Let's get lost and the rights to re-issue it should be concerned that the longer they wait to do what is needed, the more the reputation of the intellectual property is damaged by the presence of the inferior copy.

I have to confess to knowing next to nothing about the subject of this free-wheeling take on the life and times of jazz trumpet legend Chet Baker, to the extent in fact that I was unaware he was a singer of note too. Let me declare straight away I'm no jazz buff so a lot of the names dropped here and even some of the music featured also meant little to me but armed with my little knowledge and knowing its inherent danger I wanted to look in on this unusual man's career. Of course this portrait takes on more piquancy with the knowledge that within a year of its release, the man himself had died, falling from a hotel window in Amsterdam at the age of only 58.

It has to be said that in latter-day interviews and footage with Baker, he looks considerably older than that. Much is made in the film of his facial deterioration from his James Dean-type heartthrob looks of the mid-50's to his lined and grizzled physiognomy of the late 80's just before his death.

Fashion photographer Bruce Weber made the film in black and white no doubt to befit his subject's cult iconic status and and also to better blend the later narrative with the monochrome press and video footage from Baker's early years. One major irritation was the lack of identifying name-titles for many of the interviewees here, plus the non-chronological narrative, no doubt cut in a deliberately "jazzy" fashion, also confuses at times. These interviews are arranged in no particular order it seems, especially as they are intercut with newly-filmed footage of the later Baker interspersed with irreverent shots of him goofing about on the beach, cruising around in an open top car or going on the dodgems at a carnival with his younger and still adoring family and friends, although earlier women in his life are markedly less adulatory.

Some of his own tall-tales, such as how he lost his teeth, a crucial thing for a trumpeter, are debunked by others around at the time as actual witnesses and it has to be said with his slow, stoner delivery to questions he's not the most riveting interview subject I've ever seen. The most direct question in the movie is the one that gets the most honest answer when his aged mother replies in the affirmative when asked if she considers he has failed her as a son. Elsewhere, we learn he got himself discharged from the army, was a guy you couldn't turn your back on if you were out with your girl, spent time in jail and he also admits to hitting women when he was younger, a crime which many keyboard warriors always bring up to the detriment of say, John Lennon, of whom I am a fan, despite his later peace campaigning. So should Baker be exonerated as he seems to be here for this and other sins, not least by the film-maker himself? I'm not so convinced as Weber in this extended love letter to Baker.

The music, while admittedly unfamiliar to me, reinforced the semi-stoned, beatnik atmosphere which hangs over the film like a fog. I personally prefer his trumpet-playing to his idiosyncratic singing style, but there's no denying his ability to put himself into a song and seem to live it while he sings it, I just wish he'd stay closer to the actual melody of the song sometimes.

Mr Baker was a complex kid for sure and not an altogether likeable one at that. That said, he does come across as occasionally self-effacing and there's no denying his musicality. He seems quite happy with the stylised way he's depicted here but I'd probably conclude by saying that it's the director who more gets lost in his subject than Baker in his musical life which was the lasting impression I got from this film.

This film is a must see for any Baker fan and even any Jazz fan. Baker really did redefine the 1950's jazz scene with his combination of mesmerising trumpet playing and angel like vocals. His instantly recognisable style has brought joy to many jazz fans over the years and even now his legend lives on some 16 years after his death in the most mysterious of circumstances.

This film tells a very candid story of Chet charting his terrible affliction with drugs as well as honing in on his god given talents. It is very highly recommended and is long overdue for a release on DVD as some fellow reviewers have alluded to. I will certainly be first in the queue to buy this must see title if and when it is re released.

I first watched this in the early '90s when i was aware of Chet Baker but at that point not really a fan , but I loved it and still do for so many reasons. It is shot beautifully In varied locations and shows the many sides to the man including interviews with people who he had let down and disappointed as well as top musicians clearly in awe of his talent . There are many singers with better voices and there are many trumpet players with superior technique but nobody who has ever played or sang with more feeling and musicality

Beautifully filmed by a fashion photographer, Bruce Weber, nevertheless the ugliness of Chet Baker's life overtakes the beautiful images on screen. In Western culture, we equate physical beauty and/or exceptional talent with a depth of soul and substance that are often lacking if we look closely with cool objectivity at those we idolize for those traits. Great beauty or great talent aren't always bestowed on the good or the worthy, and Baker is evidence of that. He was a manipulative drug addict who likely would have wound up a petty criminal if he didn't incidentally have much more than a passing musical talent. It didn't hurt that when he was very young he also had the chiseled good looks of a movie star, looks later ravaged by decades of heroin use. Interviews with the women in his life reveal a strung out moocher who knew how to use their obsessions with him to support his drug habit, taking advantage of their romantic projections of a tortured soul onto a loser with some musical talent. One of them, jazz singer Ruth Young, states flatly that for Baker music was just a way to get drugs. In an interview with Baker at the end of the film, Weber asks about his current state of constant pain due to being cut off from drugs until he gets to Amsterdam. Baker refuses to rise to the bait and open up about the destruction addiction has wrought in his life. Ironically, Baker subsequently jumped, fell or was pushed to his death from his hotel window in Amsterdam. The film appears to have been meant as an homage to Baker, but instead reveals the ugly little drug addict he was. There is another myth in Western culture, the myth that in order to create the mind must be unfettered through use of drugs. After watching this, one can't help but wonder how much of Baker's creativity and talent were stunted rather than enhanced by heroin.

Just seen it. mixed feelings. great for chet footage. the hell around is casual. usual. this sort of films telling the things public wanna know. i would like to know more about his work. the content of this doku is pretty standard, besides chet himself. i think that could be done way better. it's great cuz it was made with real chet. not afterwords. the style is typical mtv in my eyes, somewhere between mtv, and lech kowalski. the director is a photographer, and likes to appear himself. style wise it is not very fine film making in my eyes.. i think a real director could do an amazing work on chet. but it is still pretty good, and it is a very very lucky thing that this film was made at least! and let's get lost " the title, fits it very well. a great document of course. and we should be very thankful to the creators.