METALLICA: SOME KIND OF MONSTER
A film review by David N. Butterworth
Copyright 2004 David N. Butterworth
*** (out of ****)
When I first heard about "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" I thought it
was a joke. Or at least a follow-up to "This is Spinal Tap." "As the multi-million
dollar-selling rock band Metallica commence work on their latest album, accompanied
by a $40,000/month psychiatrist to help them exorcise some of their personal
demons (relations between band members being at an all-time low), they take
documentary filmmakers Bruce Berlinger and Joe Sinofsky ("Brother's Keeper")
along for the ride in an attempt to document the whole, angst-ridden experience
for themselves, and for their multitudinous heavy metal fans."
It doesn't help that not one but two of said band members bear an uncanny
resemblance to Michael McKean.
The specter (and in a lot of ways the unanticipated spirit) of "'Spinal
Tap" hangs over "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" like a "huge" rickety Stonehenge
set suspended from the ceiling. All that's missing is the sexy (sorry, sexist)
album cover, the amplifier that goes to eleven, and Nigel Tufnel waxing rhapsodic
about how he thinks he'd make for a good haberdasher. It's hard to get away
from all that while witnessing drummer Lars Ulrich, singer/guitarist James Hetfield,
and lead guitarist Kirk Hammett head-banging their way through jam-style recording
sessions one minute, banging heads in group therapy sessions the next.
Having said all that "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" isn't a bad film
by any means. In fact it's really quite good--I certainly know more about the
band now than virtually any I'd admit to liking particularly--and as an eye-witness
account of a grossly egotistical rock band struggling to get along, hampered
by dissention, addiction, and a singular lack of inspiration, "Metallica: Some
Kind of Monster" does the job. The creative process is clearly one that is
often fraught with obstacles (Hetfield, for example, took a one-year leave of
absence, checking himself into a rehab clinic with his co-members wondering
if he'd ever return).
But it's more an interesting film than a fascinating one partly because
of its length, partly because of its repetitive structure, and partly because
the insight offered up by the film's subjects, as in Jim Jarmusch's "Year of
the Horse," is less than compelling. And I might have enjoyed the film more
had I connected with the endless guitar riffs and crashing drum solos that weigh
heavily on the non-fan mind.
What's comforting about the film, however, is the knowledge that even an
outfit that can offer their new bassist Robert Trujillo a one million dollar
advance can still have their sucky days. Just ask Bob Rock at the soundboard:
perspective is something that often gets lost in the mix.
Berlinger and Sinofsky's cameras started rolling early in 2001, when the
band rented space in San Francisco's Presidio and started cranking out ideas
for a new album. Two years later "St. Anger" is pretty much in the can, but
the road to that point has been as rocky as a Philadelphia prizefighter. Perhaps
the band simply needs to lighten up a bit--making music should be fun, no?
The next time Ulrich, Hetfield, and Hammett hit a creative impasse (or each
other) might I suggest--and they don't have to pay me Dr. Phil's whopping monthly
salary for the recommendation--that they rent Rob Reiner's film and recognize,
with amusement and foresight, just how lightweight the heavy metal music business
can be.
That, or become haberdashers.
--
David N. Butterworth
dnb@dca.net
Got beef? Visit "La Movie Boeuf"
online at http://members.dca.net/dnb
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