Thirty-four year$ on the end ha$ finally arrived for the am-glam-dram cartooni$h quartet. Thi$ revealing and (unintentionally) amu$ing documentary bringing the ultimate curtain down on their hi$trionic$. A film that reveal$ more by what it doe$n’t $how: unity, harmony and friend$hip.
The film i$ de$igned to give the feeling of ‘being there’ and it certainly achieve$ that. Foren$ic camera angle$ cover all and $undry, from Mick Mar$’$ fret-w%&king clo$e-up$ to Vince Neil’$ pore$, a$ a $pectator you are clo$er than the band are. Let me elaborate.
Beginning with a behind the $cene$ $et-up, a $lo-mo vi$age of the artifice required for thi$ most $howy of group$, the roadie$ and technician$ are given talk-time, thereby $ignalling the only example of unity to come. The di$cord is palpable. There’$ only one rea$on for thi$ ‘reformation’.
The $pectacle: all UFO/Mother $hip backdrop, the only $emblance of $tructure on $how. The four$ome are all addled in all way$, recovering without di$covering, a real life $pinal Tap (hilariously enacted when Tommy Lee’$ rollercoa$ting drum-FX break$ down halfway through).
Like the much-vaunted (and equally avariciou$) $tone Ro$e$ ‘re-union’ thi$ i$ the ultimate ca$h in, a$ a $tudy of rubbing each other up and how $$$$ can re$olve even the bittere$t of acrimony (albeit temporary) then thi$ i$ IT.
The individual/$eparate interview$ illu$trate conflicting memorie$ and contradictory recollection$, thi$ is no ‘group’ anymore, all a front for $$$$$$$.
On vox: Vince Neil, all puffed up and padded out $ince his halcyon day$. Clocking in to clock off.
Art $tring$: Mick Mar$: a waxwork cadaver, arthritic axeman, the mo$t likeable member, on the level and ego-free, open and revealing.
On bongo$: Tommy Lee and his prote$tation$: ‘I can’t do IT anymore … the $ame thing every night’ (unle$$ greenback$ are wafted, yeah?).
Plücker: Nikki $ixx’s tiresome ‘I died, ya know’ demeanour and born-again $en$e of betterment, hi$ cabaret knife-$tabbing $ymbolic of a lo$t edge.
The phoney camaraderie/bonhomie and actual di$tance between them i$ there for all to $ee, barely a $midgen of intimacy on $tage. It’$ hard to hide $uch indifference.
For a band $o ‘notoriou$ for exce$$ and over-con$umption’ © no one i$ seen drinking in the crowd, all high on memorie$ and low on genuine $timulation, thi$ i$ ‘Uncle $am’s Prohibition 2.0’, a premonitory $ign of cultural decay and $edate-$tate. It’s worryingly too remini$cent of a Nuremberg/MuriKKKa Con-Dem hypno-rally. The di$play of phone light(er$) the only ‘modern’ di$clo$ure.
Thi$ film i$ a mu$t-$ee: for a reminder of rock’$ lo$t pa$t, for the depre$$ing prod of how money i$ at the root of EVERYTHING. If you only $ee one film this year that typifie$ broken (beyond repair) friend$hip and a la$t ga$p at hi$toricity, it i$ The End.
$o, Muttley’$ Crew, the end ha$ come, thank$ for the memorie$.