Alejandro Jodorowsky’s second autobiographical work, the follow-up to his The Dance of Reality, makes the shortlist of great films about the art life. It tells its story from the inside out—the main character is Jodorowsky himself as a young poet, roaming, living and damaging himself good in the city streets of Santiago, Chile—and that’s how it avoids the cliches. There’s no unfathomable genius here tossing out brilliance in furious montages. It doesn’t emphasize bohemian decadence so fiercely that the art itself falls by the wayside. It doesn’t climax with the creation of a masterwork or the achievement of fame or money.
Jodorowsky doesn’t care about any of that. Anyone who can compose a sincere four-line poem is already rich, to him. Any musician abusing their instrument, any painter defacing a canvas or any dancer trying to leap out of their own skin is on the right track. Artists are the most beautiful of fools to Jodorowsky’s eye, and so they’re beautiful here. He gives us a panorama of the Santiago avant garde scene of the 1940s and won’t judge a soul. All of these people are just as amazing to him today as they were when he was 18.
To hear him tell it, Jodorowsky grew up with a harsh and unloving father. At 86 years old, he won’t make the same mistake. Alejandro Jodorowsky today bursts with love for everything. Every color, every sound, every movement of life. This film’s villains: self-doubt and the ego. Neither stand a chance.
This is an old man’s film in that it’s heavy with knowledge and experience, but it also has a young man’s energy and sense of daring. Endless Poetry is outrageous and kinetic. It’s bold and fleshy and profane. Jodorowsky hasn’t become a crank. He’s that same fireball that you might have seen in Jodorowsky’s Dune. He still wants to change the world. He still makes films like his latest is the only one that matters.