Film

The myth of Albert Ayler is one of the most intoxicating in jazz. A self-proclaimed prophet of the saxophone famous for volcanically soulful improvisations, he drowned in the East River in 1970 under still-mysterious circumstances. Kasper Collin’s Ayler doc flirts with hagiography—mostly via the saxist’s own mystic proclamations—but the Swedish director keeps his account admirably intimate: He includes no one who didn’t know the musician personally, eschewing both critical commentary and third-person narration. The portrait that emerges is refreshingly clear-eyed yet highly insular.

Collin’s interview subjects lend the film its emotional core. Even as we hear Ayler’s lofty oaths and witness his gritty flights in remarkable rare footage, we see present-day video of his frail father, Edward, struggling to locate his son’s grave, and his brother Don—once a formidable trumpeter and Albert’s musical foil—smoking in the backyard of the Cleveland psychiatric home where he now resides. Encountering Ayler’s former associates, such as bassist Gary Peacock and drummer Sunny Murray, Collin employs a novel device: He shows them not just talking about Ayler but listening to him, grinning and grimacing in undiminished wonderment. But in forgoing even a brief summary of exactly how the saxist assailed jazz bylaws, the film risks denying nonconverts the same pleasure.