Love tears him apart
Anton Corbijn takes on the life of Ian Curtis in Control
By Mairead Case
Published: November 16th, 2007 | 3:40pm
The biggest problem with idealizing a myth (an album, dead men, the ivory tower) is that when you start telling its story, the plot is either secretly about you, or else it is more boring than a box of glue. If you want to reach a wider audience, you need to tweak things a little: add a chorus maybe, or some weird colors.
Control is director Anton Corbijn’s idealization of Ian Curtis — dad and husband, Joy Division’s epileptic lead singer, 23-year-old suicide victim. Corbijn’s Curtis is basically the emo ubermensch: tall, dark, and in a trench, crippled only by fame, seizure, and the occasional beer. Ladies, you can save him if you try — it’s a fairy tale, but so what? There’s nothing immediately wrong with paper doll lust, whether for Curtis or a time you never lived, and especially if it means feeling Joy Division songs in your armrest.
And Corbijn really did live it — he’s an enduring, laurelled photographer of bands like Depeche Mode, U2 and Johnny Cash, plus he shot Curtis just before he died — so maybe you forgive the elephant-obvious musical segues and flaccid attempts at non-linear narrative. Debbie Curtis, Ian’s widow, co-produced the film, so you also get wonderfully winky dry humor, like when Natalie is born and takes Mom’s breast; “I need a cigarette,” says Ian, and leaves. All that might be self-love and mirrors for the Joy Division fan club (and I’m in, in spades) however where Control transcends is its look and feel.
Cinematographer Martin Ruhle did a gobsmack gorgeous job with velvety blacks, smoke besexed and bangup angles, all glinting with poppy pink script. Possibly the best part is Control’s soundtrack. In all seriousness, the cast version of “Transmission” is the best I almost never heard, which is capstone brilliant for a song going “no language, just sound.” The music lives, no matter its box.
Issue #25
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