by Michael Pollock
True Stories opens with the words, “A film about a bunch of people in Virgil, Texas.” This is the closest thing to an explanation that the movie supplies. It is part musical, part slide show, part parody, part homage, part self-parody, part commentary, and music video. Sometimes the songs naturally spring up, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes characters acknowledge the camera, sometimes they don’t. It does not make a whole lot of sense, but sense has never been a priority of the Talking Heads.
The film tours the small town of Virgil, Texas as it adjusts to the new housing sprawl brought by the micro-chip producing Vericorp. There is nothing not ‘80s about it. Our guide on this tour is the bolo tie-wearing and Talking Heads front man, David Byrne. Byrne has little to no impact on the plot, rather he introduces us to the town’s people and goes off on philosophical rants that intentionally lead nowhere. Occasionally, he drops comments like, “things that never had names before are now easily described,” only to steal any possible meaning that the audience might gain by following with, “it makes conversation easy.”What plot there is revolves around Louis Fyne, played by John Goodman before Roseanne ruined him. Louis is a good-natured technician, and self-proclaimed “dancing fool,” looking for a woman to love and marry. We follow Louis on several dates, watch his dating commercial, and see him perform “People Like Us” in the penultimate scene.
Only three songs, “Wild Life,” “Love For Sale,” and “City of Dreams,” are performed by the Talking Heads. A preacher, a FOUR H club, a conjuto, a fashion show announcer, and other citizens of Virgil sing the rest of the True Stories soundtrack. I have been listening to the album version of these songs for years before I saw the movie. It is easy to stay loyal to those songs I loved in high school, because the movie versions take on a life of their own. Pop Staples singing “Papa Legba” during a voodoo ceremony is obviously very different from Byrne singing it as I ride in my mom’s Camry. With windows down, I used to mumble along to the song, but Staple’s nonchalant voice, robes, and talismans give meaning to the gibberish lyrics.
Like Byrne’s presence, the songs pop–up with no regard to the plot and the lyrics don’t bother to push the story along. Rather than being an annoyance, this is the joy of the movie. You never know when someone is going to start singing and you never know when Byrne is going to go off on a theoretical tangent only to admit that he has forgotten what he was talking about. The movie can certainly be watched straight through, and there are plenty of youtube clips, but I often stream True Stories on Netflix, and let it play, as if it were an album, while I clean or make food. I hum to the music, wash a cereal crusted bowl and giggle when John Goodman remarks on his own “consistent panda shape.” Perhaps True Stories is structured, not by plot, but by charm.
