I sit in with CKTB morning show host Steph Vivier to have a look at movies in theatres and streaming including the wonderful “Anora,” the intriguing “Conclave,” the interspecies bromance “Venom: The Last Dance,” the revenger thriller “Seeds” and thr rock doc “Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band” on Disney+”.
Fast reviews for busy people! Watch as I review three movies in less time than it takes to tie a bowtie! Have a look as I race against the clock to tell you about the ecclesiastical thriller “Conclave,” the revenge drama “Seeds” and Bruce Springsteen’s “Road Diary.”
SYNOPSIS: Like The Boss’s best work, “Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band,” a brand new doc now streaming on Disney+, has a good beat and you can dance to it, but closer examination reveals a deeper understanding of what make Bruce tick.
CAST: Bruce Springsteen, Steven Van Zandt, Jon Landau, Thom Zimny, Nils Lofgren, Patti Scialfa, Danny Federici, Roy Bittan, Garry Tallent, Max Weinberg, Clarence Clemons. Directed by Thom Zimny.
REVIEW: First and foremost, “Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band” is a celebration of half a century of music and live shows. Archival footage of Springsteen thrashing around the stage like a spinning top is butted up against footage from the band’s recent US and European tour, captures the excitement of a lifetime of his live performances.
“I made a promise to myself that if I got through this,” Springsteen says of touring after the pandemic lockdowns, “I’d throw the biggest party I could,” and he did, in a worldwide tour captured by director Thom Zimny’s cameras.
And the good times roll, but while watching the 73-year-old Springsteen form these familiar songs into a carefully curated set list, it becomes clear he’s a man on a mission to tell a story, through the lyrics, that act as a treatise on mortality and an examination of a life spent making music. The cumulative effect is joyfully melancholic, a memorial to youth with a nod to mortality.
The doc’s more conventional aspects—the slightly self-congratulatory tone of some of the testimonials and the profiles of fans from around the world—feel unnecessary, but they are minor annoyances in a sincere movie that offers music fans interesting behind-the-scenes footage of the Springsteen’s creative process, the band blowing off the cobwebs after a six-year layoff from playing live and heartfelt tributes to dearly departed E-Streeters Clarence “Big Man” Clemons and organist Danny Federici.
There is plenty of fan service in “Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band,” but it isn’t just about nostalgia. It’s about friendship, age, mortality and, as Springsteen says, playing music “until the wheels come off.”
If a bomb dropped on A&M Recording Studios in Hollywood on January 28, 1985, the Billboard charts may never have recovered. Save for superstars Prince and Madonna, the entirety of American pop royalty, 46 performers in total, gathered to check their egos at the door, and record “We Are the World,” the American answer to Bob Geldof’s supergroup charity single “Do They Know it’s Christmas?”
The song became the fastest-selling U.S. pop single in history, selling 20 million copies, and raising tens-of-millions for humanitarian aid under the umbrella of United Support of Artists for Africa (USA for Africa). A new documentary called “The Greatest Night in Pop,” now streaming on Netflix, takes us behind the scenes of the historic recording session.
In the opening third of the film, director Bao Nguyen sets the stage, “Behind the Music” style, using archival footage and new talking head interviews with the major players, to teleport the viewer back to the heady days of the original Macintosh personal computer and when “Purple Rain” made Prince the first artist to score a number one song, album and movie at the same time in North America.
Music icon and activist Harry Belafonte noted the success of Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” to raise awareness and funds to fight famine in Africa, and put into motion the idea that would become “We Are the World.” In short order, fundraiser and music agent Ken Kragen came on board, raided his Rolodex, and brought together Lionel Ritchie, Michael Jackson and producer Quincy Jones to create a song to be sung by an all-star choir.
From the writing of the tune and the machinations involved in recruiting the a-list talent, made somewhat easier by scheduling the session after the American Music Awards ceremony when virtually the entire music industry was in Los Angeles for the event, to the placement of the microphones and Jones’s famous “Check your ego at the door” sign, Nguyen breezes through the events leading up to the actual recording.
It is a straightforward setting of the scene, that leads into the remarkable footage taken on the night, as some of the most famous people in the world came together to learn and record a song while also shooting the music video that would accompany the release.
It’s here the documentary becomes something more than an episode of “I Love the ‘80s.” The footage unveils the effort, the raw talent and spirit of camaraderie among the legends, who almost immediately becomes starstruck fans, asking their idols for autographs in between takes and expressing shyness about singing in front of music legends like Ray Charles and Bob Dylan.
There are funny moments—Cyndi Lauper’s many necklaces are identified as the strange sound ruining take after take—some unexpected ones—Bob Dylan’s vocal insecurity, for instance—and touching scenes of the artists overcome by emotion, including Diana Ross who cried when it was all done. “I don’t want this to be over,” she said as equipment is packed up around her.
At the helm is Jones. To manage the talent, the egos and insecurity of a roomful of superstars, Huey Lewis notes, “You gotta be more than a great musician, you have to be a psychiatrist,” and it is remarkable to watch Jones mollycoddle, push and prod this group. He knows what he wants and always seems to know how to get it. It’s a remarkable peak into the work of a virtuoso.
“The Greatest Night in Pop” is an exercise in nostalgia and certainly doesn’t reinvent the music documentary form, but the work of the collected musicians on that one special night remains as inspiring today as it was thirty-nine years ago.
Early on in “Brian Wilson: Long Promised Road,” a new documentary about the legendary Beach Boys leader, now on VOD, an interviewer asks him to explain how he writes songs. “It starts in my brain,” he says. “Makes its way to the piano and on to the speakers in the studio.”
Can you explain further?
“No,” he says, “I can’t.”
That exchange sums up what a great deal of the film is like. Like it’s reticent subject, it doesn’t reveal much, certainly anything you don’t already know about Wilson’s well-documented life, but chance to hear his music recontextualized by talking heads like Bruce Springsteen, Elton John, Linda Perry and others is a treat.
Directed by Brent Wilson (no relation), the backbone of the movie is a road trip between Brian and “Rolling Stone” writer Jason Fine. They cruise around to Beach Boys hotspots like Malibu’s Paradise Cove, where the band shot their first album cover, his hometown of Hawthorne, California and the home, perched high above Los Angeles, that was home to Wilson, his first wife Marilyn and the infamous sandbox he installed as a creative refuge. The two are longtime friends, but even in the comfort of Fine’s company, Wilson seems fragile, offering up short, nondescriptive answers to Fine’s questions.
More revealing are Elton John and Springsteen’s comments or producer Don Was, who calls Wilson, “One of the greatest artists who ever walked the face of the earth, in our time or any other time,” marveling at the production on “God Only Knows.” Former Barenaked Ladies singer Steven Page talks about the pressure Brian must have felt being labelled a genius from an early age. Nick Jonas talks about expectations being the foundation for disappointment. In these moments the film mines something deeper, and offers a third hand analysis of what it means to be Brian Wilson.
Of course, Wilson’s music speaks louder than words and it is here “Brian Wilson: Long Promised Road” excels. Wilson, it’s said in the film, used the studio as an instrument itself, and if this movie teaches us anything, it’s that everything we really need to know about the musician is already out there, on the grooves of his records.
Early on in “Western Stars,” a concert-concept film based on Bruce Springsteen’s album of the same name, the rock icon says, “It’s my 19th album and I’m still writing about cars.” It’s a funny comment but loaded with meaning. Metaphorically the cars in Springsteen’s songs are always moving forward and at just shy of age seventy Springsteen does the same, showcasing music here unlike anything he’s ever made. Looking in the rearview mirror to influences like the country-pop music of Jimmy Webb while keeping the pedal to the metal, he charts new territory.
Shot in the hayloft of a 140-year-old barn on Springsteen’s Colts Neck, New Jersey property (“A place filled with the best kind of ghosts and spirits,” he says) in front of a small, private audience, the concert features a 30-piece orchestra and band, including wife Patti Scialfa. Taking center stage under the cathedral ceiling he unfurls the album’s 13 songs of melancholy (plus a bonus track at the end). Told from the point of view of a faded cowboy b-movie star, the tunes evocatively tell stories of blue-collar Hollywood stuntmen, loss and bravado (“Once I was shot by John Wayne,” he sings in the title track. “Yeah, it was towards the end. That one scene brought me a thousand drinks. Set me up and I’ll tell it for you, friend.”) The performances are energetic but solemn; this isn’t the fist-pumping “Dancing in the Dark” Boss but an introspective artist sharing soulful, personal moments through the narrative of his music.
Instead of the usual concert film interviews—”It was an honour to work with Bruce… etc.”—Springsteen and longtime collaborator Thom Zimny link the songs with arty short films that illuminate Springsteen’s headspace as he wrote the songs. Shot in the Joshua Tree desert, these moody visual pastiches of Bruce in American legend mode, in cowboy hats and boots, are personal reflections that deepen the understanding of the music. “We’re always trying to find somebody whose broken pieces fit with our broken pieces,” he says, “and something whole emerges.” His words reflect on the art but his comfortable on-stage interaction with Scialfa, his wife and musical partner of thirty years, also intimates he found that with her. It’s a cinematic riff on his “Springsteen on Broadway” show but instead of anecdotes here he gives a look at his inner life, laying bare some profound personal introspection.
“Western Stars” is an intimate performance with great music, lyrical soul-searching (“The older you get,” he says, “the heavier that baggage becomes that you haven’t sorted through.”) and a restless spirit that suggests Springsteen is mining his baggage to create vital, beautiful new art.
The latest movie to mine the legacy of classic rock comes as a tribute to Bruce Springsteen. Based on a memoir by Sarfraz Manzoor, “Blinded by the Light,” joins “Rocketman,” “Yesterday” and “Bohemian Rhapsody” in dramatizing the power of music to change lives.
Viveik Kalra plays the British Pakistani Javed a.k.a. Jay, a 16-year-old aspiring writer with dreams of getting away from Luton, a town he describes as “a four letter word,” where he is an outsider, tormented by skinheads, and his strict father Malik (Kulvinder Ghir). “You can choose to be a doctor or a lawyer or an estate agent,” his father says, “so don’t say I don’t give you any freedom.”
Things improve when he heads out to a local sixth form college. There he meets a teacher (Hayley Atwell) who tells him, “Stop doubting, keep writing,” the politically aware anarchist Eliza (Nell Williams) and best friend Roops (Aaron Phagura). When Roops hands over cassettes of “Darkness on the Edge of Town” and Born in the USA” with the words, “Bruce is the direct line to all that is true in this s****y world,” it’s as if Jay has been struck by lightning. “It’s like Bruce knows everything I’ve ever felt, everything I’ve ever wanted,” he says.
As his obsession grows he begins dressing like his hero, speaking in Bruce quotes and papering his walls with Springsteen posters. His family thinks he’s gone bonkers. “Do you think this man sings for people like us,” asks his father, but the connection between Springsteen’s lyrics of working-class life and Jay’s existence are too powerful to ignore.
Directed by “Bend It Like Beckham’s” Gurinder Chadha “Blinded by the Light” is a coming of age story fueled by the invigorating power of music to change lives. Springsteen’s songs are specific in their American roots but universal in meaning. When Jay, sitting on the other side of the Atlantic, frustrated and unhappy, hears Bruce sing, “Man I’m just tired and bored with myself,” it hits home. It’s the epiphany moment when he realizes others feel the way he does. Call it “The Tao of Bruce” if you like, but the lyrics, set against the bleak backdrop of Thatcher’s England and the rise of the racist National Front, take on a meaning that resonates with Jay. It borders on corny and is earnest in the extreme but the earnestness is the movie’s strength, celebrating the virtues of the best of human values. “Bruce sings about not letting the hardness of the world stop you from letting the best of you slip away,” says Jays, with an acolyte’s devotion.
“Blinded by the Light” is a crowd-pleasing confection, sentimental and predictable, but bound together with the giddy feeling of first hearing music that speaks to you.
The mid-seventies were a confusing time to be a music-obsessed kid looking to latch onto pop culture in Nova Scotia.
Old hippies weren’t my people—they were everywhere, sporting peace and love hangovers, tie dyed t-shirts and dazed looks. With them came bad hygiene and battered copies of Aoxomoxoa. The free love stuff sounded pretty good to me, but I never liked Birkenstocks and stoner rock wasn’t my thing, (although Silver Machine by Hawkwind was usually worth a fist pump.)
In syncopated lockstep with the 60s leftovers were the disco Dan’s and Dani’s, polyester-outfitted goodtime seekers looking to boogaloo to the top of Disco Mountain. I did the Bump at school dances, I suppose, and played the hell out of my Jive Talkin’ 45, but I was six three at age twelve so wearing platforms were out of the question. Even if I could have worn them the hedonistic woop-woop of disco felt alien to me, like it was emanating from a different planet where everyone had glittery skin and mirror balls for eyes.
Singer songwriters wrote about things that didn’t touch me. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover? I didn’t have a lover to leave once, let alone another 49 ways. Also, lover? Who did Paul Simon think I was? Marcello Mastroianni?
Country rock was OK, although at nine plus minutes Freebird overstayed its welcome by about six minutes. Country music was for hillbillies (it wasn’t until much later I discovered the joys of Waylon and Willie and the boys), soft rock was for girls and I’m pretty sure only dogs could fully appreciate Leo Sayers’ high-pitched wailing. I liked KISS although their “rock and roll all night, party everyday” ethos seemed unrealistic, even to a teenager.
My parents listened to the smooth sounds of Frank Sinatra which frequently clashed with the hard rock racket emanating from my brother’s room.
I was left somewhere in the middle.
Of course I had records. A stack of them.
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was usually near the top. It was a touchstone then as it is now because of its exceptional songwriting, cool cover and otherworldly sounds. I also had the obligatory copy of Frampton Comes Alive! but I also had pop records, heavy metal albums and some disco. But I hadn’t yet heard the definitive sound. For my brother it was Jimi Hendrix’s string stretching. For my dad it was Bing Crosby‘s croon.
I was fifteen and hadn’t yet passed that most important—to me anyway—rite of passage: finding the combination of notes and attitude my parents wouldn’t understand.
In those days the top ten charts were really diverse and fans were regularly exposed to a baffling array of music. The Billboard charts hadn’t yet fragmented off into genre specific listings and radio wasn’t yet run by robots with limited imaginations. Playlists were all over the place, and if you weren’t quick on the dial you’d awkwardly segue from the slick jazz of George Benson into You’re the One That I Want’s pop confectionary.
There weren’t many stations were I grew up but there was a smörgåsbord of sounds to be heard, but around the time Barry Gibb became the first songwriter in history to write four consecutive #1 singles on Billboard’s Hot 100 Chart the music on the radio started to have less appeal for me.
On the quest to figure out your identity there are few things more soul destroying for a fifteen-year-old than finding yourself inadvertently humming along to a song on the radio as your dad drives and hums in harmony.
I didn’t want the shared family something-for-everyone experience radio offered. I wanted my own experience so I began to regard the radio I grew up listening to as Musicology 101. With its indiscriminate playlists, it’s ability to embrace all genres I had a solid base to build on, but like many good relationships we outgrew one another.
Songs by Kenny Rogers and the like were everywhere but tunes such as The Gambler sounded hopelessly old fashioned; like a Zane Grey dime store novel put to music. So when the radio, which had been my constant companion, fell away as a source of discovering new music I turned to Hit Parader, Circus, Cream and any other magazine I could to find out what was what.
There I saw pictures of the Comiskey Park Disco Demolition Night that lead to the jettisoning of my Bee Gees singles. I read about Elvis Presley dying on the toilet, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane bursting into flames, killing six while, ironically, promoting the Street Survivors LP.
It felt like the old guard was fading away. Sure Queen (liked them) and Barry Manilow (not so much) and Village People (see Manilow note) were still having hits, and Bruce Springsteen was still being loudly touted as the future of rock and roll (by rock critic turned Bruce’s co-producer Jon Landau who wrote, “I saw rock and roll future and its name is Bruce Springsteen.”) but I wasn’t ready “to trade in these wings on some wheels.”
At the same time my one-time hero Alice Cooper got sober and made the worst record of his career to date but that stuff was quickly fading as I began to hear about—but not actually hear—some exciting music from London and New York.
The only thing I knew about New York came from TV and a family from Manhattan who rented a cottage every year at one of the three beaches that framed my hometown. They told me that if you left your bike unchained at the corner of Ninth Street and Second Avenue it would disappear almost immediately, as if by magic.
London I knew only from history books, James Bond and Monty Python.
But in the pages of my mags I learned about a new youth movement, a musical incubator spearheaded by bands like The Ramones, The Clash, Wire and Television.