Raoul-16

Don't listen to the apologists--with all due respect to Stan Winston's special effects (which were very good but wasted in this film), this was excruciatingly awful. The people who construct defenses of this film by referring to the message and admittedly interesting premise seem to forget that you don't need to watch this film to get either, since there are two other film versions and (whoa!) a classic novel as well. In other words, there's no reason whatsoever for this waste of celluloid to have been released on an unsuspecting public...or even for it to have been made in the first place.

"OK, wise-guy--what's so bad about it, then?" Everything except the costumes. This was Brando's return to the full-blown inmates-running-the-asylum lunacy of Apocalypse Now, except there's precious little talent involved (save Brando's own long-squandered acting chops) or anything resembling an artistic vision to guide the horrible mess. What we get instead is a morbidly fascinating ego pile-up fueled by drugs and chaos--and did I mention that it's ineptly edited as well? You could start a whole new drinking game based on the inexplicable lingering blank looks, awkward pauses, and perplexing continuity gaps. Every time something happens that makes no cinematic sense whatsoever, shout "WTF?!?" and down another shot. At least that way, you'll pass out halfway through the movie and spare yourself "the horror" of watching the rest.

"OK, wise-guy--how about some examples?" Fine. What's with Kilmer doing his freaky Brando impersonation when his character temporarily takes over the island? It would almost make sense except that it's Brando's Godfather character that he's doing(!). Why didn't anyone on-set have the cajones to tell Brando to quit f***ing around and take the g-ddam champagne bucket off of his head during the "stupid hat" scene? Why do the occasional chase scenes lack any suspense or excitement and just sort of end? Why do all the actors seem like they're completely blitzed on quaaludes and heroin? The inevitable impression one takes away from this movie is that no one was in charge, and the resulting film feels like watching a grown-up kindergarten populated by furry things who are all amped up on superhuman quantities of narcotics...and did I mention that the teacher's called in sick? Spare yourself. If I could give it a zero, I would--there are lots of movies on the IMDb "100 Worst" list that I'd much rather watch than this thing. Ugh. Poor Frankenheimer...

Perhaps the best thing about this documentary is that it manages to present a deep and rounded enough picture of a great subject that it will have substantial appeal both to the most devoted long-time Minutemen fan and to those who've never heard of them or experienced their music. For those who've been enjoying the music of D. Boon, Mike Watt, and George Hurley for years, some of the content will be familiar by now, but the story takes on fresh vitality and power when told by the band members themselves--both from archival interviews and in fresh footage of the surviving members.

I wish dearly that this film or something like it had been around 20 years ago since the Minutemen, for all of their magic and considerable virtues, are not only an acquired taste but a somewhat difficult one to acquire. As becomes the focus of many of the testimonials from their contemporaries, they stubbornly stuck out as unique and eccentric even in the (rapidly-calcifying) LA punk scene. In this world of misfits who tended to rush to cookie-cutter formula for some semblance of security or solidarity, the Minutemen insisted on following their own muse, creating not only their own style of music but their own ways of working, their own lingo, and--most of all--their own deeply personal (and yet highly political) way of looking at the world. Because of this rejection of the quick, easy 3-chord punk format and all of its attendant accessories (simple anti-authority anger and lyrics, ripped clothes, tough snarling image), the Minutemen never gave their audience any easy footholds to get into the music. Instead, it took careful, sensitive, and repeated listenings to see the very human spirit(s) behind the music, to appreciate the revolutionary fervor and self-deprecating humor of their outlook. It's easy to forget after 20 years of fanhood just how hard it was and how long it took to really appreciate them, but this film will make the chore much less painful for prospective new converts, since the guys themselves and their most sympathetic fans and friends get to tell the story and set the record straight. As Watt himself muses at one point, so much of what they did was wildly misunderstood at the time, which is why there was and is a burning need for a film like this--it allows us to finally get the clearest look yet at the inner workings of a truly unique, intelligent, and heartfelt band.

This brings us to another reason why it's so wonderful even for those who don't know the Minutemen, or even those who can't or won't enjoy the music--there's a great, great story at the heart of this film, the tale of a rare and wondrous creative friendship sundered by a senseless loss that is tempered by the brave and inspiring way in which Watt in particular has continued to wave the banner of honesty, homespun truth, and DIY. D. Boon's untimely demise is also made meaningful by the obvious reverence and respect shown by so many of his contemporaries, by the clear spiritual influence he has had on so many other musicians. Though gone, his music and spirit lives on, never more perfectly captured than in this loving documentary.

Upon reading of Bonham's 15-minute drum solo on "Moby Dick," I'm only glad that my viewing of this cinematic nightmare was interrupted by a bit of dust on the DVD, 'cause I know I would've sat through the whole thing and hated myself afterward if some serendipitous intervention hadn't saved me.

So what can you say about a movie like this? I guess it'd be fun if you were completely wasted while watching it, but otherwise it's of value only for the musical performances, which I will admit have their moments...though even those can be few and far between. I can see why the extended fantasy sequences were thrown in--many of these songs go on for so long and have such long stretches of direction less noodling that watching the musicians on stage would have been thunderously boring. On the other hand, watching Robert Plant single-handedly take over a castle is so absurd that one marvels at the remarkable self-delusion of the entire band. It speaks volumes about how deeply they bought their own ridiculous mythology that this film was ever allowed to see the light of day...just embarrassing to see grown men prancing about in full "lord of the manor" costume, and a tribute to the appalling lack of taste and good judgment of the whole Zeppelin corporate enterprise.

I'm also not sure what we're supposed to make of an extended sequence of Zep's tour manager berating and brow-beating Madison Square Garden staff for allowing a bootleg concessionaire into the building...it makes an amusing and chilling foreshadowing of Metallica's latter-day battles with Napster, which have been equally dunder-headed and pointless.

So maybe it's best to talk about the music, since that's ostensibly the point here. The performance is a pretty representative display of the 'eavy boys, I'll say that. It's kinda sloppy sometimes, but that's part of the Zeppelin mash, and I'd say it's offset by the moments of inspired improv. The more galling side of it is the remarkable self-indulgence, as songs go on for waaaaaay too long and tend to not really go anywhere. Plant is irritating as always, and Jones is virtually absent on screen though his musical contributions hold everything together. Page is just silly with his showboating--I give him points for some really creative playing in spots, but as often as not he's just throwing a lot of needless notes in there to fill up the sound, completely inexpressive. Bonham, too, has moments but is sloppier than I'd've expected...good to see him having fun back there, but this performance doesn't cement his reputation as a drum god.

As a time capsule of the pomposity and excess of 70s rock, this is perfect, and I guess we can thank it for inspiring Spinal Tap, but otherwise you can skip it without missing much. If you wanna see a concert movie, check Stop Making Sense or The Last Waltz instead. You'll thank me.