miloc

This odd little comedy/drama from Sidney Gilliat doesn't really hold a lot of water, but does hold a fair amount of charm, as the motley occupants of a London boarding house rally in support of one of their own, a young would-be spiv arrested for murder. As the youth in question Attenborough is pop-eyed, guilt-wracked and hapless, eerily resembling a young Peter Lorre-- we feel sorry for him, though we may not empathize much. But the film's emotional shadings come from the older actors like Wylie Watson, Fay Compton, and Joyce Carey (no, not the novelist), who stand by the boy simply because they know it's the right thing to do.

The plot's barely there, but there's a lovely eccentric atmosphere to it all, and also a juicy supporting bit for the great Alastair Sim. Hilariously morose, with a strange and seedy profession, his Mr. Squales would provide inspiration some seven years later for Alec Guinness's great turn in The Ladykillers, down to the overbite and the lank, terrible hair. Sim was a few years away yet from being the UK's most popular film star; he was the weirdest and most watchable of screen idols. He walks away with the film.

At the beginning of the greatest concert movie ever made, we follow a pair of sneakered feet to down center of an empty stage. A voice says "I've got a tape I want to play." We pan up to a thin, nervous-looking man with an acoustic guitar and a boom box. The box starts playing a beat. The man's hand hits a jangling chord. And for the next hour and a half, as the scenery slowly builds around this skinny misfit, we sit transported.

Talking Heads were unquestionably a seminal band in the New York punk/new wave scene. Yet before seeing this film I had little idea of who they were, and even after seeing it I would not necessarily put them on a top ten list. Nonetheless, through a combination of front man David Byrne's charisma and stagecraft, Jonathan Demme's taut, precise filmmaking, and the infectious heat of the music, Stop Making Sense remains the most enthralling and sheerly entertaining rockshow ever. The keening melancholy of "Heaven", the stripped-down mystery of "Once in a Lifetime", the dark funk of "Girlfriend is Better" -- there's simply no duds here. And Byrne works his butt off. He seems to have energy to spare; during one number he simply jogs circles around the stage, as though he needs further exercise. His teammates Tina Weymouth, Chris Frantz, Jerry Harrison, and (eventually) a host of backup singers and musicians click into that energy without a stumble.

This isn't raw work-- clearly this is a conceived film, with defined emotional beats and even a sort of intuitive narrative. And like any band, Talking Heads have a specific sound and style that (I suppose) won't appeal to everyone. But who? I've shown this film to at least three people who never heard of the band before (except through dim memory of early MTV), and even claimed to hate concert movies-- and then they went and bought the soundtrack.

What can I further say? This is a record of performance that cannot be matched. If you like music, at all, clear a little time and watch this movie. I can't promise you won't be disappointed, but I cannot easily imagine how.

The object of any great concert film is to convince you, at least for the span of the movie, that the subject is The Greatest Rock Band in the World. If The Kids Are Alright doesn't succeed in that goal as completely as Jonathan Demme's sensational Stop Making Sense, that's hardly the fault of The Who-- few performers have labored harder in the name of fan service.

Though engaging and highly watchable, The Kids Are Alright stays a minor affair, documentary-wise. Here and there it flirts with insight. We catch a bit of Keith Moon palling around with fellow alcoholic Ringo Starr ("We're just taking our medicine, children!") in a bit that foreshadows tragedy without actually catching the weight of it. We get a laugh from Pete Townshend's startled "Eh?" at being confronted with his own lyrics ("...hope I die before I get old..."). But the between-music bits of the film offer little substance; they're just filler.

But there's an early clip of the band performing in a club, in which we cut to Moon, drumming his heart out, already in hyperdrive-- and then, impossibly, he starts going faster. His face is upturned in spiritual abandon, his hands simply disappear. And, in a phenomenal rendering of Baba O'Reilly, you see Townshend dancing in genuine and infectious ecstasy over John Entwhistle's thunderous bass line. And in an epic performance of Won't Get Fooled Again, we finally understand the sheer force of The Who-- the lights go out around six minutes in for the synth solo. Then the drums kick in, gathering our heartbeats with it. The lights come on: Roger Daltrey is screaming, and Townshend is in midair, and we are with him, transported, levitating.

These were men who enjoyed their work. And for these five-to-ten minute stretches, we are watching The Greatest Rock Band in the World. Worth the price of admission.