What the Bob Dylan Biopic ‘A Complete Unknown’ Gets Wrong About His Early Days, The Newport Incident, and the Woman Who Changed Everything – click the link to read more

James Mangold’s upcoming biopic A Complete Unknown, starring Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan, has already generated waves of anticipation, especially among fans of the legendary singer-songwriter. With its slick production and impressive casting—including Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez—the film aims to tell the story of Dylan’s meteoric rise during the early 1960s. But as with most Hollywood interpretations of real lives, certain liberties have been taken. While A Complete Unknown captures much of the spirit of Dylan’s emergence, there are critical elements it gets wrong—or at least, oversimplifies.

Let’s begin with Dylan’s arrival in New York City in 1961. The film portrays it as a sudden, almost magical leap—a Midwestern kid stepping off the bus into destiny. But the truth is more layered. Dylan had already spent time bouncing between Minneapolis clubs and forming a clear identity before reaching Greenwich Village. He didn’t simply arrive and conquer. He hustled, played for tiny audiences, and navigated a tough folk circuit full of talented, equally hungry musicians. His determination was real, but so were the obstacles.

The portrayal of the Greenwich Village folk scene also deserves scrutiny. While the film tries to encapsulate the bohemian energy of early ’60s New York, it tends to romanticize the environment. In reality, Village coffeehouses were competitive, often exploitative spaces. Artists like Dave Van Ronk, Fred Neil, and Phil Ochs weren’t just colorful characters in Dylan’s story—they were formidable forces who shaped the culture as much as he did. By centering Dylan too fully, the film misses the collaborative, chaotic atmosphere that actually fueled his growth.

One of the most glaring inaccuracies, according to early screenings, is how the film handles Dylan’s relationship with Joan Baez. While it’s true that Baez helped elevate Dylan to national prominence—bringing him onstage during her concerts and championing his songs—the biopic seems to flatten their relationship into a simplified muse narrative. In reality, their bond was both romantic and political, deeply affectionate and eventually deeply strained. Baez was a towering figure in her own right, already a star before Dylan arrived. Reducing her to a sidekick diminishes her agency and the emotional complexity of their fallout.

Then there’s the Newport Folk Festival incident in 1965—the night Dylan famously “went electric.” It’s a moment often mythologized, and A Complete Unknown is no exception. The film dramatizes the crowd’s reaction as a betrayal of folk purity, portraying Dylan as a misunderstood visionary fighting against a hostile tradition. But the truth is murkier. Some fans cheered. Some were confused. Yes, boos were heard—but they may have been directed at poor sound quality as much as at Dylan’s electric set.

The most persistent myth—that Pete Seeger tried to cut the power cables with an axe—is played up once again. Seeger himself later clarified he was upset at the distorted sound, not Dylan’s betrayal. By leaning into this legend, the film indulges in a black-and-white version of a night that was full of ambiguity and tension. It’s good drama, but questionable history.

Dylan’s songwriting process is another area where the biopic struggles. Mangold attempts to show how songs like “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” emerged from Dylan’s reflections on civil rights and looming global conflict. While the intent is noble, it suggests a kind of methodical activism that Dylan consistently denied. He always resisted being labeled a “protest singer,” preferring the chaos of artistic intuition over political clarity. He was an observer, a sponge—not a preacher with a platform. The film, perhaps in an effort to inspire, puts too neat a bow on his motivations.

Perhaps the most glaring omission, though, is Suze Rotolo. Dylan’s girlfriend during his early Greenwich Village years, Rotolo was a passionate activist who profoundly influenced his worldview. She appears beside him on the cover of The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, and her impact on songs like “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” and “Boots of Spanish Leather” is well documented. Yet in the film, her presence is barely felt. This erasure not only sidelines an important woman in Dylan’s life, but it also removes the political and emotional context that shaped some of his most vulnerable work.

Of course, any biopic faces the challenge of condensation. Lives are messy; films are streamlined. But in mythologizing Dylan as a lone genius, A Complete Unknown risks losing the very soul of his story. Bob Dylan didn’t emerge fully formed from a bus ride into Manhattan. He was shaped by the people around him—the musicians he played with, the women he loved, the political currents he swam through, and the mistakes he made.

What the film does get right is the restlessness. Chalamet’s Dylan is constantly in motion, rarely satisfied, always searching for the next truth, the next sound, the next escape. That, perhaps, is the most authentic thread of all. Dylan’s refusal to stay in one place—musically, emotionally, spiritually—is what made him not just a legend, but an enigma.

In the end, A Complete Unknown may succeed in introducing new generations to Dylan’s music and mythos. But for those who lived through the era—or who have studied it deeply—it’s worth remembering that the real story is messier, sadder, and ultimately more fascinating than any film could capture. The truth about Dylan lies in the contradictions, not the resolutions.

And maybe that’s just how he wants it.