SYNOPSIS: “Spinal Tap II: The End Continues,” a new mockumentary now rockin’ in theatres, sees the estranged members of metal legends Spinal Tap thrown together for one last gig. Times have changed, but have they?
CAST: Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, Harry Shearer, Rob Reiner, Elton John, Paul McCartney, Fran Drescher, Questlove, Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Kerry Godliman and Paul Shaffer. Directed by Rob Reiner.
REVIEW: “Spinal Tap II: The End Continues,” the legacy sequel to the forty-one-year-old classic mock rock doc, captures the spirit of the original, but does not turn the volume of laughs up to 11.
Following a fifteen-year break, the estranged members of heavy metal band Spinal Tap— David St. Hubbins, Nigel Tufnel, and Derek Smalls (Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, and Harry Shearer)—are forced to reunite for a one-off show in New Orleans.
Their acrimonious split sent them in different directions. Guitarist Tufnel has a shop called Nigel’s Cheese & Guitars, where he trades cheese for musical instruments. Singer/guitarist McKean writes scores for b-horror movies like the retirement home horror “Night of the Assisted Living Dead”, and bassist Smalls runs a glue museum called Stick to It.
Reluctantly reunited, they are once again under the scrutiny of documentarian Marty Di Bergi (Rob Reiner) who captures the backstage drama, ego trips and the search for a drummer.
The original film was groundbreaking, a masterful mock doc that set the template for everything from “Bob Roberts” and “Borat” to “The Office” and “A Mighty Wind.” The new film, however, feels like nostalgia. We’re used to the form, and while it’s nostalgic fun to spend time with silly-but-sweet rockers, our familiarity with the original blunts the impact of the new one.
There are some laugh out loud moments in “Spinal Tap II: The End Continues,” but the satire doesn’t land in quite the same way it did forty-one years ago. British comedian Chris Addison’s portrayal of the music hating concert promoter is bang on. He’s the embodiment of the ruthless music executive who, with a straight face, suggests it would secure the band’s legacy if, “during the gig at least one, but ideally no more than two of you were to die.” When he’s on screen the spoof is sharpened to a fine point.
It’s when the film gets awkwardly reflective with a mix of satire and emotion that it hits a flat note. As old wounds are opened and an air of mortality hangs over the band, the jokes become fewer and further between. A new song, “Rockin’ in the Urn,” is a reflection on aging, but it hits the expected tone, self-serious, over the top and metal as hell. That scene hits the right chord, managing laughs with the band’s reflections on refusing to stop rockin’ in the face of their own impermanence.
“Spinal Tap II: The End Continues” is a cover version of a fan favorite. Guest, McKean, Shearer and Reiner, who directs as well as appears as Marty Di Bergi, are game, but the looming specter of the original casts a long shadow over the proceedings.
I think it’s time Terrence Malick and I called it quits.
I used to look forward to his infrequent visits. Sure, sometimes he was a little obtuse and over stayed his welcome, but more often than not he was alluringly enigmatic. Then he started coming around more often and, well, maybe the old saying about familiarity breeding contempt is true.
For most of his career he was a tease, a mythic J.D. Salinger type who burst on the scene in a blinding flash of brilliance, made two of the best films of the 1970s, then left us hanging. Like spurned lovers we waited for him to return for two decades and at first were happy to see him again. He told wondrous stories about personal connections and the nature of relationships.
Then he started repeating himself. In the beginning I didn’t mind but soon his whispered philosophical asides became tiresome and I began to look for reasons to avoid him.
Now I have one.
It’s been said that the essence of cinema is beautiful people saying interesting things. In his new film Malick gets it half right, parading good-looking heart throbs like Ryan Gosling, Rooney Mara, Michael Fassbender and Natalie Portman around in a pointless exercise called “Song to Song.”
Fassbender plays a Machiavellian a record producer who uses his wealth and power to seduce those around him, including aspiring musician Mara, rising star Gosling and waitress-turned-wife Portman. The willowy women and mumbling men run barefoot through the loose story—which often feels cobbled together from scraps of film found on the editing room floor—pondering philosophical questions in hushed tones. “How do you know when you were lying to yourself?” they whisper. “Is any experience is better than no experience?” All the while Malick’s camera, light as a feather, floats above it all capturing his puzzling whims. For the entire running time nobody looks like they’re having any fun even when they’re dancing, being goofy or laughing. They’re not having any fun and neither will you.
Airy and disjointed, it’s a collage of feelings and shards of life strung together on a fractured timeline. Malick indulges himself to the point that the film is less a movie and more like an experience, like going to “Laser Floyd.”
There are highlights. Val Kilmer singing to a festival crowd, “I got some uranium! I bought it off my mom!” before hacking off his hair with a giant Bowie knife is a memorable moment and cameos from Patti Smith and John Lydon are welcome, but at its heart “Song to Song” is a movie about people trying to connect that keeps its audience at arms length.
There’s a quick shot of a tattoo in the movie that sums up my feelings toward my relationship with Malick. Written in flowery script, the words “Empty Promises” fill the screen, reminding us of the promise of the director’s early work and amplifying the disappointment we feel today. “Song to Song” is the straw that broke the camel’s back, the Terrence Malick movie that put me off Terrence Malick movies.
I’ll be nice though and say, it’s not him, it’s me.
