A new film about Kurt Cobain joins the long list of rock documentaries – but what makes a great one? Greg Kot picks out the best.
The new Kurt Cobain documentary, Montage of Heck, which makes its US cable-TV debut on 4 May and is playing in cinemas worldwide, really isn’t much of a documentary at all – at least in the traditional sense. It lacks cultural perspective, as well as any sense of how Cobain developed as a musician and became the reluctant figurehead of a generation. It’s more of a character study, a psychodrama, as told through a dead rock star’s archive of tapes and notebooks.
The seven interviewees – all devoted to Cobain – lament his death by suicide in 1994 even as they are unable to explain why. Cobain himself remains an enigma, albeit a powerful one, and director Brett Morgen ends the film by underlining what made him so compelling. He doesn’t fixate on eulogies or blood-splattered video images. Instead he lingers over the singer’s stunning acoustic performance at MTV Unplugged of Lead Belly’s In the Pines.
Yet Montage of Heck feels insular, despite its clever editing and animation. Those who might not be completely familiar with Cobain’s volatile music or troubled life may come away from this documentary wondering what all the fuss is about.
A subject as robust as Cobain demands a fuller portrait, in the tradition of a few outstanding rock documentaries – some famous, some more obscure – that personalise their subjects while placing them within the culture they shaped:
Don’t Look Back, Bob Dylan (1967)
Speaking of elusive, enigmatic subjects, Dylan was the crown prince and DA Pennebaker his camera-toting Boswell on a 1965 tour of England. Dylan was on the verge of “going electric” and his restlessness is apparent, no doubt enhanced by the amphetamines he was gobbling. The singer comes off as an irascible, inscrutable whirlwind of creativity, armed with a wicked sense of humour. He cuts perceived fools off at the knees, whether they be clueless journalists or folk singer Donovan. Roger Ebert panned the star: “Those who consider Dylan a lone, ethical figure standing up against the phonies will discover after seeing this film that they have lost their hero.” But for many others, Dylan’s rebel legend was secured.
Gimme Shelter, The Rolling Stones (1970)
The Stones’ 1969 US tour helped turn them into the “the world’s greatest rock ‘n’ roll band” and also nearly proved their undoing with its tragic conclusion at the Altamont festival in California. Albert and David Maysles’ cameras didn’t miss a thing, including the fatal stabbing of a young African-American fan by Hells Angels while the Stones performed – helpless to stop the mayhem unfolding in front of them. It’s both damning and riveting.
The Filth and the Fury, Sex Pistols (2000)
Julien Temple tried twice to put the Pistols’ story on film. The first, The Great Rock and Roll Swindle (1980), was more of a mockumentary, the tale of a three-chord prank. The second examines the toll exacted from those who would challenge not just the music business, but a society and government. When Johnny Lydon gets choked up while talking about Sid Vicious’ death, the Pistols “swindle” becomes something of a tragedy.
Some Kind of Monster, Metallica (2004)
More than a few hints of This is Spinal Tap surface in this portrayal of a rock band unravelling. James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich granted virtually unlimited access to veteran film-makers Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky for two years while the alpha rockers squabbled, nearly broke up, and resorted to hiring a $40,000-a-month “performance enhancement coach”, who ends up trying to write lyrics for their songs. For some viewers, the movie will demonstrate indisputably that this heavy-metal emperor has no clothes. But in this case the emperor sanctioned a movie about the disrobing.
You’re Gonna Miss Me, Roky Erickson (2005)
The Texas rocker dropped lots of acid, which played a role in helping him invent psychedelic rock with the 13th Floor Elevators. He also spent time in a mental institution, where shock treatment and tranquilizers nearly cost him his mind. Decades later, his brother was able to help him find a way to cope with his illness, and his resilience in the face of death and demons is powerfully moving.
We Jam Econo, Minutemen (2005)
The commercially marginalised but wonderfully inspirational and influential California trio were shaped by two pals from a dead-end California coastal town: D Boon and Mike Watt. This is their story as much as a band’s. With drummer George Hurley, they squeezed an enormous amount of spirit and a broad cross-section of music into minute-long songs, while turning the low-budget, do-it-yourself road life into something of a spiritual quest. The guest list of talking heads –from Thurston Moore and Flea to Ian MacKaye and Henry Rollins – is in many ways more famous than the band ever was. But the friendship of Watt and Boon is the heart of this great story. It’s made all the more poignant by Boon’s death in a 1985 van accident while the trio were in the midst of one of their endless tours.
Greg Kot is the music critic at the Chicago Tribune. His work can be found here
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