(Oscilloscope, 95 mins)

www.oscilloscope.net

BY JIM ALLEN

Scott Walker's story would make a great biopic: frenzy-inspiring, photogenic young pop idol grows up, evolves into arch, influential artiste, loses his way, and reemerges years later as a spotlight-shunning, uncompromising avant-garde explorer. But the former Scott Engel's backstory is plenty compelling without any dramatization whatsoever, and 30 Century Man is a straightforward documentary of Walker's long, strange trip. As the ace face at the front of the Walker Brothers, an American trio who emigrated to Swinging London in the mid-'60s, he melted the hearts of young girls -- including Lulu, who gushes here about her crush in no uncertain terms -- with the pop drama of hits like "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore," but as we see in period interviews with the group, Walker's ambitions were loftier than those of his cohorts, and he soon struck out on his own.

Inspired by a sonic cocktail of Brel, Bacharach, and Sibelius, Walker crafted four cult-classic albums between 1967 and 1969 whose moody, adventurous, orchestral pop would inspire everyone from David Bowie -- the executive producer of this film -- to Radiohead, who admit here that their first hit, "Creep," was originally known as "The Scott Walker Song." When the fourth, most ambitious of these albums tanked, Walker quit pursuing his dream, stopped writing, and spent the next few years releasing watered-down MOR pop before disappearing entirely. He finally popped up again in the mid-'80s, and began slowly (about once per decade) releasing albums that pushed the boundaries further than ever, challenging the very concept of what a "song" is.

30 Century Man tells the story partly through footage of Walker across the years, but mostly through interviews with fellow travelers, disciples, and most intriguingly, the man himself. A cavalcade of rock heroes including Bowie, Brian Eno, Radiohead, Jarvis Cocker, and even Sting appear only too happy to wax rhapsodic about how Walker's early solo work turned their world around, but the real draw here is surely the testimony of Walker himself. Long regarded as a recluse whose only message to the world was the difficult, doomy music of his latter-day phase, Walker might easily be assumed to be a dark, spectral figure, but in his interviews here, he speaks candidly, easily, and with an air of undeniable affability. It's almost difficult to imagine that the depths of the challenging, haunted Tilt and Drift were mined by this good-humored, unassuming man. Even in recent studio footage where he's seen exploring the sounds of punching a slab of beef and scraping a metal trash can across a wooden crate, he's all smiles and chuckles, with virtually no outward indication of the darkness within. This fascinating dichotomy is maintained throughout the film, becoming more pronounced as Walker's music grows stranger, and it makes director Stephen Kijak's film an almost subversively affecting statement.

Special features: Additional interviews, studio footage, Walkermania segment with Walker memorabilia collector Arnie Potts.