Lawrence of Belgravia (2011) - Paul Kelly

Okay so the briefest of history lessons first. Despite what you might have read, heard or remembered the eighties was actually a phenomenal period for music. Back then Lawrence had a band called Felt. They were influential, heavenly, and easily one of the best bands of that era. Lawrence’s plan was to release ten albums and ten singles during the eighties and then split the band. Which is basically what happened. Lawrence desperately wanted to be a star, play Top of the Pops, sell a ton of records and live the whirlwind life of the fabulous. His records sounded like nothing else around at the time, the guitar heroics of Television fed through The Velvets swagger and topped off with a healthy dose existential poetry. Lawrence was ready for stardom, he sang about it, craved it, demanded it, but it never came. Felt were, and I suppose still are a cult band.

Paul Kelly’s remarkable documentary, Lawrence of Belgravia, picks up Lawrence’s story twenty years after Felt’s demise. Things aren’t too good for Lawrence when we catch up with him, he’s facing eviction and is suffering from mental health issues. That said he’s still recording and releasing music as Go-Kart Mozart, and dressing like a thrift store Brian Jones at his most dandyish. Still living the dream, still clinging to the vague hope that at any moment his boat will come in. Through a series of interviews with various interviewers, we get to meet Lawrence the person as opposed to Lawrence the failed pop star. All sorts of topics are covered from the formation of Felt right through to Lawrence’s opinions on the internet. Lawrence is an entertaining interviewee, coming across as someone who could wax lyrical and say something pithy about almost any subject dropped in front of him. One of the things that impressed me most about this documentary was that at no time is Lawrence ever made a figure of fun, you never get the feeling that anyone involved in the film is laughing at him in any way. It is funny, in places hilariously so, but the amusement always comes from Lawrence himself. One scene in particular of him trying to paint a door is painfully comical.

I’ve been trying to see this documentary for years, and have only just managed to do so. Being a huge Felt (and Lawrence) fan, I was worried that I’d built up what could have been unattainable expectations. Yet Lawrence of Belgravia didn’t disappoint. The whole documentary looks gorgeous, and is largely comprised of static shots, allowing the action to unfold within the frame. Which works well and allows Kelly’s great eye for composition to really come to the fore. Kelly’s background in photography is something that really shines through in his films. He's also aces at super-fast montage sequences, one of which manages to compress the whole history of Felt into a few seconds of screen time. Very nice.

The great thing is that you don’t have to be a fan of Felt, or even music to enjoy this, since it’s a portrait of a rather eccentric individual, who when given a platform tends to make amusing comments about everything. Please, someone just give him a TV show.

Lawrence of Belgravia is thoroughly watchable and for a Felt fan like myself an utter joy. For the eagle-eyed, there are some sublime cameos (my personal favourite being Pete Wiggs popping up for a second behind a door), Pete Astor, Martin Duffy and even legendary producer John A. Rivers turn up at various points. If you get the chance to catch a screening of this, then you’d be a fool to miss it. Hunt it down, you won’t regret it.

Metalhead (2013) - Ragnar Bragason

Adolescence isn’t easy. We’ve all seen plenty of films that tell us that, from James Dean fighting against whatever was in front of him in Rebel Without A Cause, through to John Bender sticking it to the man (well Mr. Vernon) in The Breakfast Club all the way up to Lukas Moodysson’s seminal Fucking Åmal. Being a teen isn’t easy. Even in Iceland it would seem. That’s what Metalhead is about, along with a few other things.

Metalhead kicks off back in the early ‘80s, on a dairy farm in rural Iceland (for rural read rocks everywhere). It’s the bleakest landscape imaginable that could still be described as beautiful. Very fitting for a film dealing with alienation. Iceland looks like the moon fell into the sea. Hera’s (Þorbjörg Helga Dyrfjörð) older brother manages to run himself over with a tractor after she distracts him and dies soon after. The film is about how she and her parents come to terms with their loss. Which sounds like the sort of thing that could so easily be trite and send most people reaching for the off button, but hold up because if Metalhead does one thing well, it’s confounding expectations. On the day of her brother’s funeral Hera storms out of the church marches home burns her clothes and kits herself out in her dead brother’s wardrobe. She blames herself for his death and takes on his persona, falling headfirst into the middle finger to everyone world of Heavy Metal.

Cut to ten years later and not much has changed. Rather than heading into Reykjavík and finding a life, she punishes herself (and her parents) by staying in the tiny community she’s lived in all her life. A community by the way where she is the token weirdo, and she does her absolute best to live up to that title. All of this is played out to a soundtrack of metal tracks that I have to admit was sort of lost on me, but still sounded pretty good. There’s plenty of name dropping, Dio, Maiden, Judas Priest etcetera and there are enough metal band t-shirts to keep the most ardent metalhead trainspotter happy. There are various sub-plots too, that push the story onwards, a new priest arrives in town (I know, but it turns out better than it sounds), her parents gradually dissolving marriage and her childhood friend obviously having the hots for her. There’s also a musical thread about Hera writing and recording her own music. She plays a pretty mean Flying V guitar don't you know.

Anyone who’s ever found themselves at the edge of society will recognize themselves in the character of Hera. One of the things I really liked about this film was the fact that it’s central character is an atypical female, not the usual thing you find in films where women are only there as a prop for the male characters. Hera does things that are questionable but never clichéd. Þorbjörg Helga Dyrfjörð is superb, and really throws herself into the role. It’s hard to say much more about the film without spoiling things. It’s a drama that finds time for humour, there are moments in the film that a different director would have milked for as many tears as possible, but writer/director Ragnar Bragason doesn’t seem in the slightest bit interested in any of that. Which is a relief.

In short I have to say I really enjoyed this. It’s a strange little film and maybe that’s why I liked it so. How many other films can you think of that deal with adolescence by having the main character make herself up in Black Metal warpaint? See, for that alone this deserves a pat on the back, and it doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to see how this could at heart, be inspired by the recent financial woes that Iceland has endured. Oh and it’s also got the most beautiful church in it that you’ll see at the cinema this year.

Marley (2012) - Kevin Macdonald

Kevin Macdonald knows a thing or two about how to put together a decent documentary. After all he’s the guy responsible for both One Day in September and Touching the Void, two of the best documentaries of recent times. So when it was announced that Macdonald was taking over production of the documentary about the life and times of Nesta Robert Marley from Martin Scorsese, (who like both Spielberg and Del Toro, always seems to be attached to more films than is humanly possible to make), I knew that sooner rather than later I’d end up owning it.

Now I love a good music doc as much as the next man, especially when I don’t really know all that much about the subject. Which is just what Marley is for me. What I knew about Bob Marley were just the basics that everyone knows, those fantastic early Ska 7”s, the early Lee Perry produced stuff (Mr Brown being one of my all time favourite songs) and that after he signed to Island his music became watered down, but crossed over and sold like the preverbal hot cakes to the white folks. Oh and he died because of some injury sustained whilst playing footie. Beyond that I didn’t have the foggiest.

Macdonald’s documentary really wins out by concentrating on Marley the person, rather than being a definitive trawl through which album came when and what single charted where. I’m sure there are numerous books out there that cover that sort of thing in OCD style detail. The Marley family seem to have given their blessing to the project since they are interviewed, and have obviously given up a stack of never before seen pics and home video footage. Now normally that sort of thing could be a death blow for this sort of film. Since the director is obligated to show the subject in a certain rose tinted light in exchange for access to such previously unseen goodies. However Macdonald manages to have both his cake and eat it. For every story of Bob Marley bringing people together there is another about him shagging his way around the globe, or being a shitty parent. Eleven kids by seven different women while all the while being married, that definitely paints a picture that most families wouldn’t want talked about too loudly.

On top of that the interviews that Macdonald secures with various players from the late 60s Jamaican reggae scene are all gold. Jimmy Cliff, Bunny Wailer, Chris Blackwell and Rita Marley are all very forthcoming. Lee Perry is thankfully not in crazy man mode and manages to give a small insight too. Although his contribution is so small I do suspect the rest of his interview was unusable. Fire, water, CDs hanging from bits of string on a stick, his standard routine. Yawn. Then there are various girlfriends, long lost family members and a whole host of characters from Marley’s past. Weaved into these interviews are some gorgeous aerial photography of Jamaica and archive footage galore.

In short this is one of those documentaries that if you have any sort of love of music you have to see. I went into it thinking Bob Marley was an alright if somewhat overrated bloke, that managed to bring reggae to the sort of people that would never normally listen to it. I came away not having changed my opinion all that much, but with a greater respect for the man. The final chapter of the film, dealing with Marley’s untimely death is heartbreaking, and really hammers home the idea that behind the persona Marley had built for himself throughout the 70s, was a very real person who was dying and desperately didn’t want to. See it with the bass cranked up to max, but do see it.

What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day? (2005) - Paul Kelly

Paul Kelly’s second foray into the world of film making is this wonderful short (45 minutes) film about the Lower Lea Valley in London’s East End. The announcement on 6th July 2005 that this long neglected area was soon to become the center of the worlds attention (due to it being transformed beyond all recognition into the Olympic Park for the 2012 London Olympics), was met with a smattering of applause and a healthy dose of scepticism from the local population. Luckily Paul Kelly was on hand along with long time friends and collaborators Saint Etienne to capture the area on film before it disappeared forever.

We follow a paperboy as he cycles through the various places that make up his route. It’s a simple narrative that allows Kelly to focus on a number of seemingly unconnected images and places that appear to have been forgotten by all but those that live there. Mervyn Day (the paperboy) meanders around the downtrodden area exploring derelict buildings, cricket grounds and canals. On top of this we get various audio bursts from the locals, waxing lyrical about everything from a crocodile that lives in the canal, Dick Turpin and a kidnapper on the loose. There's also wonderful gravelly narration from David Essex and Linda Robson as Mervyn's grandfather and mother respectively.

What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day? works in the same way as The London Nobody Knows or even The Long Good Friday in that it records a whole swathe of London that has now gone for good. A time capsule for a future generation if you will. There's references to The Smiths, Eastenders (signs for both The Dagmar and The Queen Victoria turn up), stories about great leaps in industry (plastic being invented here) and how nicking toy cars from the Matchbox factory wasn’t really thought of as stealing. More than anything there is a strong feeling of nostalgia running through the film. This comes across not only in the audio interviews, but also in Saint Etienne's score.

Peppered throughout What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day? are snippets of radio news about Britain winning the Olympic bid and of the bombings that knocked London for six the day after that announcement. Which cleverly manages to convey both the mixed feelings (excitement & gloom) that was in the air at the time. It also firmly anchors the film in a particular moment in time. It might not mean much now, but in 50 years…

Coming from a photography background Kelly has a keen eye for where to place his camera and manages to find beauty in things that most people would normally look away from. An old Coke can and half deflated football sitting atop a puddle of scum on a waterway, rows of long abandoned industrial premises, old street signs and heavily graffitied walls. All look interesting and invoke a nostalgia for ‘the old days’. I found a shot of an old bin with wooden slats particularly moving. Maybe you had to be there.

Just as with their previous collaberation with Paul Kelly, 2003's Finisterre, the Saint Etienne soundtrack works a treat. The music itself is almost an updated version of John Cameron’s aces score for Kes. Very pastural yet modern at the same time, very Saint Etienne in other words. It's all flutes and beats, the sound of the past and the present clashing with great success. They performed it live at the film's premiere at London’s Barbican Centre.

By the film's end our paperboy is down at the Thames staring across the water at that other huge London redevelopment project of the recent past - The Millennium Dome. It leaves the viewer questioning what will happen to the communities around the Lower Lea Valley in the aftermath of the Olympics? Will they be pushed further afield and not get to enjoy the rejuvenation of their own area? After all, that has been happening for donkey's years now with the gradual 'gentrification' of London. Time alone will tell. Once the lovely animated credits for What Have You Done Today Mervyn Day? start to role though you’ll find yourself wanting to go for a stroll along the waterways, or maybe pop into one of the local caffs for a mug of tea. It’s too late though since it’s all gone now. That’s why this film is so important. A total triumph.

Woodstock (1970) - Michael Wadleigh

3 Days of Peace & Music ran the tagline on the poster for the ‘Woodstock Music & Art Fair’ which took place over four days in August 1969. If they’d just worked the words ‘mind altering drugs’ and ‘biblical weather’ into their slogan they wouldn’t have been too far from the truth. Of course Woodstock is now one of that eras most defining moments, at the time though it was just another festival. Today just hearing or reading the word Woodstock conjures up images of stoned greasy haired kids dancing about and sliding through mud, but back before the festival it was a country retreat for a small crowd of artistic types (most famously Bob Dylan) who wanted out of the city life. The fact that the Woodstock Festival didn’t actually take place at Woodstock, but actually some 45 miles down the road is just typical of the zonked out nature of this iconic gathering of tribes.

Thank heavens for Michael Wadleigh then and his idea to gather up a film crew and head out to document the event. He hit on the brainwave that the audience were just as interesting as the performers and shot hours of film of hippie kids rolling in mud, talking rubbish, sucking on tiny yellow spliffs, getting naked, waffling on at length about drugs, war and The Man and a whole host of other things. Wadleigh arrived early enough to be able to capture the transformation of Max Yasgur’s farm, filming the construction of the stage and capturing the locals bemusement (and later anger) about what was descending upon their little hamlet.

The footage itself is great, mainly handheld, it all feels very unrestricted and very free, totally sixties. Wadleigh’s team seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Which is quite a feat in itself. However the editing is where it all really comes together, we get lots of split screen and overlapping effects, which really do a lot to bring to life what could have otherwise been a static shot of someone singing a song. The fact that a young Martin Scorsese and his future editor - Thelma Schoonmaker were on the editing team probably didn’t hurt too much.

But of course the visuals are only half the story, music and sound obviously play a huge role too. For every great act in the film there’s another that played the event but didn’t make the final cut for whatever reason. Some omissions were rectified with the extra forty minutes bolted on for the Director’s Cut, hello Janis Joplin and Jefferson Airplane, but even now there’s still no Tim Hardin, The Band, Grateful Dead or Ravi Shankar. But what we do get is a good mixed bag of performances, Joe Cocker gurning like a born again 90s raver through With A Little Help From My Friends, likewise Santana and Ten Years After manage to show that with epic guitar solos comes epic face pulling. We get The Who at their live peak, but unfortunately so far no footage of Townsend booting Abbie Hoffman off stage has ever turned up. Other musical highlights include Sly Stone putting the rest of the line up to shame and showing that he was James Brown’s natural heir, Crosby, Stills & Nash doing their acoustic thing, the electric set that included Neil Young wasn’t filmed thanks to Young nixing the idea. Doh! Then off course there’s Richie Havens kicking the whole shebang off, decked out in a kaftan and dripping sweat all over the place. He’s amazing to watch and even better to listen to.

By the time Hendrix hit the stage a staggering four days after Havens the majority of the 500,000 that had trooped along had departed. Almost no one attending had brought any sort of provisions to survive their time at Woodstock, have a look next time you watch it and see how many tents you can spot. The real victory of Woodstock was the fact that it happened and it passed off relatively peacefully, it was organised by the people for the people too. Half a million American youths were able to sleep next to each other in some strange field in atrocious weather without any violence, that’s a wonderful thing. Especially when juxtaposed with the same amount of Americans 8,500 miles away in Vietnam doing the same thing to the same soundtrack but with very different results.

For me Woodstock is something that I watch every five years or so. It’s not my favourite music festival documentary, but it’s damn close. The previous year’s Monterey Pop Festival is far better music wise, but doesn’t spend much time with the audience. In fact with a few exceptions I really don’t enjoy the music in Woodstock as much as the stuff that happened while all that was going on. The thunderstorm, the stage announcements - ‘If you think really hard, maybe we can stop this rain’, the warnings about the brown acid, the interview with the guy who uses a portaloo and describes it as ‘far out’, the locals who rally round to provide food for the festival goers, the atrocious mess call trumpet player - the list is almost endless. It’s easily one of the high points of popular culture in the 60s. The good vibe of Woodstock didn’t last long though, just a few months after on December 6th The Rolling Stones staged their own mini festival in California at the Altamont Speedway and brought the 60s to a bloody violent close.

Shut Up and Play the Hits (2012) - Will Lovelace & Dylan Southern

Aces documentary charting the day leading up to and coming down from LCD Soundsystem's farewell concert at New York's Madison Square Garden on April 2nd 2011. It's a show I'd love to have been at but for various reasons (most of them involving a complete lack of funds, and the rest having to do with living 4,000 miles from N.Y.), I wasn't able to attend. So this documentary has quite a bit to deliver for all those fans that are in the same boat as me. Thankfully it does and then some (the DVD having the whole concert spread across two discs as an 'extra'). I'd say right off the bat that you need to be a fan of LCD Soundsystem to get anything from this. This is a documentary in the very real sense of the word, documenting a moment in time. If you are already a fan then prepare yourself for a treat, not only do we get selected highlights from the 3 ½ hour show, but also receive a behind the scenes look at life in the center of the hurricane, all interspersed with an interview with LCD frontman James Murphy.

It works really well, and we gain a small but significant insight into why Murphy feels that putting LCD Soundsystem to sleep at the height of their fame is the right thing to do. Let's face it, in an age where bands are more and more reluctant to call it day, even when they are well past their prime, it is supremely refreshing to see someone do the right thing and draw the curtains before things become boring. Just imagine how cool New Order would be if they'd stopped after Technique, even The Clash try to airbrush out the embarrassment of their final Cut the Crap LP from history in order to look like they went out on a high, rather than the awkward whimper that they actually left the music world with. But anyway I'm getting sidetracked…

There are poignant moments such as Murphy talking about his heroes (Lou Reed and Bowie seem to be the two that crop up over and over), and how he perceived them as a teenager as being something untouchable, almost beyond human in the way that people tend to think of celebrities in general. What co-directors Lovelace and Southern manage so well is to show the mundanity of Murphy's life, how he just like normal folks, wakes up and checks his phone, drinks coffee, meets friends and walks his dog. It's this juxtaposition between the everyday and the jaw dropping hugeness of the gig that really does the trick for me.

Obviously the documentary this reminded me off most was The Band's swan song - The Last Waltz. Just like that farewell concert famous friends drop by to lend a hand, so we get Arcade Fire, Planningtorock, Reggie Watts as well as a band consisting of Gavin Russom (The Crystal Ark), Nancy Whang (The Juan MacLean) and Al Doyle (Hot Chip). Al Doyle is particularly watchable, leaping about and playing just about any instrument that is thrust in front of him, so as well as the usual guitar, bass and keyboards he also plays a stack of percussion and even at one point a trumpet. The band are in great form, and whip through some choice cuts - North American Scum, Dance Yrself Clean, Someone Great, Losing My Edge and the highlight for me - All My Friends. "To tell the truth, this could be the last time."

At no point does this ever feel like a funeral, there are tears, but they come mostly at the end and that's understandable since it is just that - THE END. It'll take years before people realise that what James Murphy did was not only brave but also essential. I'm convinced that LCD Soundsystem's stock will rise and rise with time. Something that might not have happened had their next album been a patchy effort, or a contract filling live album. Having said that though I'd love to have seen them live just one last time. Still I'll always have the records and now I have this film too. The king is dead, long live the king.

Anvil! The Story of Anvil (2008) - Sacha Gervasi

Second viewing for me of this great little documentary about long forgotten METAL group Anvil. Back in the early to mid eighties Anvil were it seems swimming along and playing on the same bills as a whole stack of bands, whose names fall off your tongue at the merest thought of the M word, such as Metallica, Anthrax and Slayer. Then for reasons unknown they dropped off the map while their contemporaries stock rose and rose. Well I write reasons unknown but to me it feels like Anvil's peers changed and developed, whereas Anvil seemed to stick to their guns, and so the music scene they were a part of moved on without them. Also once you get to know the members of the band a little you realise pretty quickly that they're too damn nice to make it in the back stabbing, shit slinging world of big bucks music.

Anyway when we catch up with Anvil there are only two original members left;- Steve "Lips" Kudlow (guitar hero, lead screamer and driving force behind the band) and Robb Reiner (drums, grumbling, awful paintings and old faithful). They're about to embark on a dismal 40 day European tour, highlights of which include a piss poor 174 punters turning up in an arena that holds 10,000, and not getting paid for a gig in Czechoslovakia after playing the gig. The tour is a shambles right from the off, for a start the tour manager is going out with the one of the members of the band (who she eventually marries), and doesn't really have all that good a grasp on the English language. It feels like Lips is just happy to be away from his meals on wheels job back home in Canada, and be back on stage and living some sort of semblance of the rock star life. Which in a way he is, kind of, if you squint your eyes and look into the sun, maybe. After said tour we get to see them record their thirteenth album, after Lips borrows $13,000 from his sister to cover the recording costs. Reiner constantly seems to be at the end of his tether and on the verge of quitting once and for all. He's the 'too old for this shit' Murtaugh to Lips' Riggs.

Both Lips and Reiner live in a bit of fantasy world, since they've had a taste of the high life (as seen in the opening montage of them playing at some huge Japanese Metal fest in the mid 80's), and seen everyone around them go on to sell more records, earn more money and get more tattoos than them. The thing is it's difficult to be hard on either of them since if they want to chase their dreams then that's fine. As long as they enjoy it and aren't causing anyone any harm, what's the problem? Well the problem is mainly that these are two middle aged guys, who both have families that suffer due to them not wanting to accept what everyone else accepted years back. IT'S OVER, you've had your shot and you didn't make it, now concentrate on the here and now and look back on those days as something you can tell your kids about. The sad thing is no one seems to be willing to tell either of them that. Which might have saved a lot of heartache, but not given us the chance to spend a few months with Anvil feeling both happy and embarrassed for them in equal measure.

Director Gervasi obviously has a love not only for Anvil (he was one of their roadies), but also for the whole scene that spawned them. Which is something that is lacking from my music collection, I was never all that into metal as a young lad. My rebellious jukebox was Hip Hop, so metal has always been a bit of a mystery to me. I love the things that inspired it, such as Sabbath and Purple and all the rest of it, but you won't find any Slayer, Metallica, Megadeath or Judas Priest in my collection. I do own two Iron Maiden LP's though, does that count? The point I'm trying to make here is that just like the Metallica documentary before it, a love of the music isn't essential.

Now if you're thinking this is all a bit This is Spinal Tap then you are on the right track. There's even a tears running down your face funny moment, where they talk about an early unrecorded song called Thumb Hang, all that's missing is the 'Shit Sandwich' review. So in a way this is equally for fans of Tap or even Tap's far better British brother Bad News, as much as for Kerrang! heads. Gotta love the circular structure to the documentary too, and the fact that this has managed to give Anvil a new lease of life, since they've managed to squeeze another album out since this films release. If you haven't seen it then do, it's a great life affirming hilariously sad documentary. And you don't get many of them nowadays do you?

Slade in Flame (1975) - Richard Loncraine

British music films are a funny old breed, most tending to stick to the A Hard Day's Night template of the band playing songs interspersed with a few wacky situations for 90 minutes. Sometimes there's an attempt at a story, and almost always they involve some kind of journey too. They're always quite light and fluffy, typical common denominator stuff, after all you don't want to scare the fans off. Plus the film acts as a whopping great advert for your b(r)and, so best make it as wholesome as possible. During the sixties there were some great Brit pop films such as the Cliff and The Shadows actioner Summer Holiday, and some less great ones - Magical Mystery Tour and Catch Us If You Can being about as far away from goodness as is possible.

'73's That'll Be the Day, was a huge step away the smiling happy pop moppets of the previous decade, but suffered from not having the strongest soundtrack. Slade in Flame takes the gritty realness that That'll Be the Day achieved and runs with it. The film is a fictional account of the rise and ultimate fall of Flame, who just like Slade have a brown chugging boogie vibe about them. It's the kind of film you'd expect Ken Loach to have made, if he'd been a fan of popular music. It's also the sort of thing that you wish The Beatles had done during the late sixties, but never did. Slade in Flame is set in the grim reality of mid seventies Britain, houses are being boarded up, everything feels black and white. It's actually what Glam was supposed to make you forget about, and probably why that particular period in music was so damn popular back then. Cheap and tacky, but also honest and rocking, you could dance to it and if you spent a few quid in Woolworths you could look like your idols. Well sort of.

Glam was split into two distinct groups, the arty lot - all yr Roxy Musics, Bowies and Eno's at one end of the spectrum and everyone else at the other end. Basically bands that had been trudging around the working mans club/pub circuit for donkey's years discovered that some glitter and dodgy clothes could get them noticed. So while these other groups such as Mud, The Rubettes and best of all Sweet and Slade would never instigate any great change in music, they kept the Glam flame burning long after Roxy and Bowie had moved on to pastures new. It's something that happens in popular music all the time, just a few years down the line the same thing would happen with Punk.

Anyway back to the film. Now what normally happens with films starring bands is that the musical segments are great, but the stuff that happens in between (acting etc) is usually well below par. That's where this film really triumphs, because not only does it have a great story and tight little script, but both Noddy Holder and Jim Lea are superb actors (admittedly playing versions of themselves - but what the heck). Props to director Richard Loncraine for recognising they could act and giving the bulk of the action to them. Dave Hill has a few moments but in general looks most comfortable on stage doing what he does best. As for Don Powell it looks like he's just doing his best not to look directly into the camera. Which for the most part he manages. He does have the funniest moment in the film though, when he stands up on a train and declares that he's off for a piss. Tom Conti turns up as a monied investment banker type that sees Flame as a way to diversify, and then there's Johnny Shannon playing pretty much the same character he did in Performance. The rest of the cast are made up of people that you'll remember from The Sweeney, and various other seventies Brit TV staples.

I absolutely loved this film. I've been meaning to see it for years but just never gotten around to it, but now that I have I can't think of a better film from this genre. Some parts of it do whip along just a little too fast, and there is far too much time spent on the idea of the band being manipulated by their management (which is the central theme of the film). Then before you know it it's over and some wonderful black and white Dad's Army 'You Have Been Watching' style credits appear. Which is a shame since I wanted more, but maybe more would have been worse, it's hard to say. Of course the music was spot on, How Does It Feel in particular standing out as a blinder of a song. What more could you want? Well how about Noddy Holder screaming most of his lines through the first half of the film, or the band being formed by two blokes standing at a urinal, you also get to see the biggest set of ginger sideburns ever. If only for that alone this should be seen. But really you should see this because it's an important pre-punk glimpse of England on the cusp of going to the dogs, soundtracked by some top notch stomping tunes.

I'm Still Here (2010) - Casey Affleck

Damn this is a tricky one. It's not often I'm left unsure about what I've just seen, but that's exactly how I felt after seeing this. Not because of the whole is it real or not thing (it's so clearly staged - but we'll get to that later). No it's more to do with is it any bloody good or not?

For those that don't have the foggiest what all this is about, it's as simple as this. Top actor Joaquin Phoenix wins his Oscar for Walk the Line, seems to have a little wobble about the idea of making films for the rest of his life, and decides he wants to make Hip Hop records instead. Luckily best buddy Casey Affleck is there to document Phoenix's journey.

You see I adore the idea, and the potential for what messrs Affleck & Pheonix could say about the idiocy and vacuousness of celebrity is almost limitless. Living as we do in a world where people are absolutely 100% obsessed with other peoples lives, the more famous the person the better. It's also a world where the famous seem to be able to do whatever they want and nine times out of ten get away with it. Hello O.J., oh the gloves didn't fit, eh? So Phil Spector can wave guns around in studios and no one would think about ringing the police, but if he was to try and change careers then he'd be for it. How strange is that? People make far more fuss about Bowie being a naff actor than any of the fascist claptrap he came out with in '75. How can that be?

Then there is whole celebrity meltdown thing that people seem to gather around and stare at in a way that is just uncomfortably bizarre. Be it Tom Cruise on Oprah or Mel Gibson turning Nazi, people just lap this stuff up. This is the sort of thing that I'm Still Here attempts to lampoon/explore. Just what is it like to be an A-lister, is it possible to move out of the box that you've been placed in and just why do people love to see someone fuck up?


Now let's get one thing straight from the get-go, this isn't real. Just check the end credits - Joaquin's old man is actually played by Affleck's pa, and there are a few continuity goofs in there too. At times the acting is totally believable, such as the David Letterman interview or any scene involving Puff Daddy/P-Diddy/Puff Pastry or what ever the fuck his minions are calling him this season. All that stuff works wonderfully. Other times though it feels as if I'm Still Here has wandered into Abel Ferrara territory, the uncomfortable scene with the drugs and prostitutes for instance, and let's not even get into the face poo scene or the amount of times you get to see Phoenix's friends man bits. Those scenes are so over the top you almost expect a full tilt Jack Nicholson to start axing his way through the door. It's a shame because they do destroy the believability of the film. Still real or not would be beside the point if I'm Still Here managed to answer or at least attempt to answer the myriad of questions it throws up, but it doesn't even try to do that. Instead it meanders and is far too long, outstaying it's welcome by a good 20 minutes.

As I write this (and even while I was watching the film), I can't help thinking about how I feel about the whole cult of celebrity and everything that goes with it. You see I'm obsessed with films and music, but don't really read publicity interviews or gossip rags, never watch adverts or have any real interest in the people behind the music/films/books I love. I've never been into the idea of getting autographs or meeting my heroes either. Yet when I look across my bookcases I see loads and loads of biographies/autobiographies, so I'm kidding myself when I say I'm not interested. What I really mean is I'm not obsessed. I couldn't care less about what happened to Michael Jackson or Charlie Sheen, the most their private lives are to me is something to talk about down the pub. Beyond that they are only as relevant to me as their latest work.

Anyway rant over and back to I'm Still Here, I'd say it's worth a look, and who knows maybe in time it'll become a This is Spinal Tap for the noughties, anything's possible after all. I have to mention the ending too, I'm not giving anything away here so don't worry. It's just a long one take tracking shot following Phoenix from behind as he walks further and further up a jungle stream. He walks against the current and slowly sinks deeper and deeper, until finally he is completely engulfed by the water. It may not be all that subtle but I thought it was a beautiful lyrical way to end the film. Oh and I actually thought the music Phoenix made was pretty good, although live he was toilet.

Glastonbury Fayre (1972) - Nic Roeg & Peter Neal

I love these late 60's early 70's festival documentaries. Gimmie Shelter and Message to Love (about the 1970 Isle of Wight festival) are watched at least once a year in my house. I've always hankered after seeing Glastonbury Fayre purely because of the Roeg connection. He basically shot all the footage but then buggered off to make Don't Look Now leaving Peter Neal to put the film together.

Anyway said footage is from the second ever Glastonbury festival, the one that Pink Floyd were going to headline but never did. Instead we get a slew of 'underground' groups from the time. Most left over from the sixties, and seemingly a little rudderless. Which is why this documentary is such a great time capsule piece. Music was in a proper transitional phase back then. The sixties had fizzled out into the seventies, and with glam just around the corner, British music was in a bit of a rut. Enter David Bowie who would release Hunky Dory by the years end, and within a year would have given British music that much needed kick up the arse by transforming himself into Ziggy Stardust.

Bowie's set at Glastonbury '71 was made up of songs from Hunky Dory and a smattering of tracks from his already half decent back catalogue. Sadly for us though the people making the documentary were sound asleep when La Bowie hit the stage at dawn. Still what we do get is a great rip roaring track from Terry Reid to kick the film off. Another highlight is a fine 100 miles per hour Fairport Convention reeling, jigging, toking and generally being a fuck sight better than I would have expected they would be considering Richard Thompson had just left. What else? Well music wise there's a tough sounding Family, Roger Chapman singing like his vocals were being filtered through a sheep. Arthur Brown's band proving that they were better when Arthur wasn't onstage. The highlight though was Traffic belting their way through Gimme Some Lovin'. It reminded me Sly Stone putting everyone else to shame at Woodstock. It just sounds powerful, soulful and doesn't meander. Grinding bass, percussion all over the place, Winwood giving it his all into the obligatory gaffa taped mics, and the biggest baddest guy on congas since Big Black walked the earth. Everyone else sounds flat compared to this performance.

To be honest it's hard to see this as being by Roeg, there aren't any of the touches that we all love about him present here. But that isn't to say this isn't worth watching, because it definitely is even if it's just for the footage of Magic Michael. Don't know Magic Michael? Well imagine a seventies version of the Chemical Brothers, the blonde one whacking away with no sense of rhythm at a couple of tiny bongos held at head height. The dark haired one meanwhile is gurning and caterwauling away, pulling some truly excellent electroshock therapy faces, he's also clutching an acoustic guitar which is as close as he comes to playing it. Oh and he's bollock naked except for a grimy grey tank top. As I say Britain was waiting for Roxy, Bowie, Bolan to come along and lead people into the decade proper.

One of the best things about Glastonbury Fayre is the fact that (just like the festival itself) it doesn't focus purely on the music. There is plenty of the spiritual side of things, which could still be found even when I was going to Glastonbury in the 90's. Plus like all the best music docs from this period there is a lot of footage of the people, all 7,000 of them. Oh and Glastonbury back then was free. How hippy a concept is that, eh? Most of the crowd look at best like Mike Oldfield or at worst a Ginger Baker/Van Morrison hybrid (and yes that's the ladies too), but at least the barrier between audience and performer was almost invisible. Something that Punk would later claim to have torn down. It was never really there at Michael Eavis' farm back in the day. Everyone looks like they live in a commune, and it becomes apparent that decent hair products hadn't reached the early seventies British underground. I did find myself wondering if everyone went back to the daily grind after this or if they really did live the life.

Of course it wouldn't be a festival without two things;- naked types and mud. There are plenty of naked people, and they roll in mud, but they also do really bad interpretive dancing, ride motorbikes and paint their sagging dirty pillows really poorly. The weird thing is they just blend into the crowd. I remember one afternoon at some Glastonbury I was at being passed by a guy who was naked except for a bum bag, with the bag bit actually worn at the back. Real horror show like. I would never have been able to stomach Glasters back in the 70's. I could only just manage the few I did attend. Anyway to sum all this up, if you haven't seen this then do, it's a scream, it even has a guy doing stage announcements with a live chicken sitting on his shoulder. What more could you ask for?

Everyone Stares: The Police Inside Out (2006) - Stewart Copeland

Tuesday 7th June 2011.

Shortish (75 minute) documentary made up from Police drummer Copeland's own Super 8 footage of his days with the band. The footage itself is exactly what you'd expect, and is the real selling point of the doc, after all you get to see what goes on behind the curtain. The only problem being there doesn't really appear to be too much going on behind the scenes. This coupled with Copeland's awful narration - sort of halfway between some crummy pulp novel and a kids diary - make this less essential than one might expect.

Sure Police fans will (or probably have) lap it up, but for the average punter who just likes seeing bands imploding I'd say go watch the Anvil/Metallica/Dandy Warhols documentaries instead, or better still Uli M. Schüppel's The Road to God Knows Where. I think this might have been better if Stewie had turned over his footage to someone else, that way we might have had a little more focus on what was actually going on, rather than the 'boo hoo being in a band is tough 'cos you have to be away from home' type narration.

Anyway he takes us from The Police's faux punk beginnings through to their ultimate stadium demise. Anyone with a bit of music biz savy will know what to expect, it's all lads together in a van gigging from town to town for beer and petrol money at the start, and separate suites by the end. Of course the early days are rose tinted, and the end times aren't really discussed much beyond lil Stew thinking that he hasn't driven his own car for a few years, and maybe all this world domination stuff is getting a little dull. On the whole I'd say worth watching once, if only to shake your head at just how bad Copeland's stage attire was. However if you're expecting some insight as to how one of the biggest bands in the world suddenly wasn't there anymore, then this isn't for you.

Head (1968) - Bob Rafelson

In 1970 Bob Rafelson and Jack Nicholson made Five Easy Pieces. A film which would shape the way the better dramas of the coming decade would be crafted. Small, intimate, well written and acted and shot through with an indie sensibility. Before that though they set about deconstructing the popular modern beat combo The Monkees. Rafelson had produced/written/directed their TV show and had obviously decided that it was time for things to move on. So when it came for them to make their first (and last) feature film Davy, Mike, Pete and Micky (The Monkees) along with Nicholson (writing) and Rafelson (writing and directing) went all out to address the things that weren't allowed on the TV series.

So we get subtle (and not so subtle) drug references, lots of Vietnam footage and of course loads of the lads sticking it to the man. There's no real plot, more just a series of interconnecting vignettes. Which is all fab gear for the first half hour or so, but after that it just drags. There's none of the zaniness of the series, which isn't a problem, but there isn't really anything funny in here either. For all it's shouting it doesn't have much to say beyond, 'um WAR isn't good, you dig' either. So quite a hollow 85 minutes then. It's not as bad as The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour, but that was at least saved by having a soundtrack to die for.

Ah yes the music, well it's actually pretty good, the film kicks off and ends with one of The Monkees best moments - Porpoise Song. There are a few cameos too, we get Zappa waxing forth about how the boys should stick to music, Dennis Hopper walks through the frame at one point, as do Rafelson and Nicholson. There's plenty of late 60's playfulness too, camera equipment in full view, and continual reminders that this is a film, so people walk off sets or break out of character half way through a scene. Wacky groovy et cetera.

Head tanked at the cinema, the hipsters that would have lapped this up would never go and see something staring that most manufactured of bands - The Monkees, and The Monkees audience were too young to get in and see the film. Ho hum. If you like this sort of thing then maybe this is for you, although I'd say you're better off with something like Jodorowsky's The Holy Mountain, which is amazing, trippy, beautifully directed, has a better soundtrack and is still like really far out man.

Black Swan (2010) - Darren Aronofsky

It was nice to be able go into this film cold, all I knew about it was that it was directed by Aronofsky which subsequently meant that the music was by Clint Mansell, starred Natalie Portman and was about ballet. Except of course it's as much about ballet as Deliverance is about canoeing. That's not to say that Aronofsky doesn't appear to adore the world he's set his film in, since there is a massive attention to detail on display with everything from how ballet shoes are prepared to be worn, through to the exercises and the actual dancing itself. Although I would question a top dancer doing her own make up. But there you go, I would wouldn't I?

It's just that the ballet is a backdrop for deeper more adult themes. Such as just how far is an artist prepared to go in order to achieve perfection? That ongoing chase that has seen many a creative genius labeled as a nutter. It's not just about that though, there's also the emotional road trip from girlhood to womanhood, of flying the nest and spreading those wings and escaping into the great big adult world.

So quite a lot to pack into a running time ten minutes shy of two hours then. Aronofsky directs the whole thing with the confidence of the seasoned pro that he's become, the pacing is spot on and not once during the film do you find yourself asking why am I watching this? Right from the off it was obvious that this was going to be a tale about duality of some sort, since almost every scene has a mirror in it, and Aronofsky never misses a chance to shoot Nina Sayers (Natalie Portman) reflected in them. What starts off as a fairly ordinary drama quickly starts to turn uncomfortable, with Nina seeing doppelgangers of herself walking around. Then there is a fair bit of sub David Cronenberg style body horror too. Transformation, see, clever stuff eh? Except that's the thing, it's not quite as clever as it thinks it is.

The story is fairly simple on paper at any rate. Nina has the chance to dance the lead in a new production of Swan Lake, to do this however she must dance both the White Swan and the Black Swan. Thomas Leroy played by a never sleazier Vincent Cassel, convinces her that in order to play the Black Swan she has to let herself go and become the character. By doing this Nina begins to transform from the virginal White Swan into something far darker. Amongst all this are various sub plots all grim and disturbing. Nina's mother is over possessive and obviously a failed dancer herself, the type that pushes her daughter to achieve what she couldn't, only to stand in the way of her progress due to her own jealousy. Throughout the film she is dressed in black (as opposed to Nina's whites and pinks), in fact it has crossed my mind that she might have not been real at all and just a figment of Nina's frantic brain. I'd have to see the film again to be able to see if I'm wide of the mark with that thought or not though.

Mila Kunis plays Lily, Nina's main rival for the lead role. I don't think I've ever seen her in anything before but she was spot on here. As was Barbara Hershey as the maddest mother this side of Pyscho. Overall I thought this was one of those films that deserves the praise heaped upon it. Portman is particularly deserving of everything since she is in every scene and really the whole film is carried on her slender frame. The last words in the film will take some beating too. Perfect.

The White Room (1989) - Bill Butt

God I love the interweb sometimes. I'd presumed that this was something I'd never ever get to see, and now here it is in all it's unfinished glory. For those of you blissfully unaware of just what The White Room is, I'll explain. Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty had a huge summer hit single in 1988 under the name The Timelords. Instead of buying gold plated swimming pools with their new found wealth, they decided to make a film and accompanying soundtrack. There are worse things to do with royalties such as burning a million quid, but that's another story I guess.

Anyway at some point during the shooting the money dried up. So Bill & Jimmy decided that another summer smash was in order, so they lifted Kylie Said to Jason from the forthcoming White Room soundtrack, and sat back and waited for the cash to roll in again. Except this time it didn't, the single didn't even make it into the top 100, and both film and soundtrack were scraped. The soundtrack although finished was reworked and became one of 1991's biggest albums, it's quite different to the original version though and well worth seeking out. The White Room film itself was plundered for a couple of videos, but other than that it has always been a bit of a mystery.

So is it any good? Well that all depends on just how much you like The KLF I suppose. Not a lot happens really, the film starts off in Trancentral, Jimmy Caulty's squat where most of The KLF's music was recorded, there is a (in the parlance of the time) rave going on. I spotted Youth, Alex Paterson and Cressida Cauty all dancing away. Bill and Jimmy stroll outside and get into Jimmy's Ford Galaxie cop car. Here they meet their real life solicitor David Franks, they converse (all mumbled) and then our duo head off into the night for a spin around London. The film itself is silent, in as much as their is no heard dialogue, the soundtrack will be recognisable to anyone who would bother watching this. Although I will say that I'm not 100% certain it's the correct soundtrack since the version of Build a Fire that is on here is from the White Room album, and not the unreleased version from the White Room Soundtrack (oh do keep up and stop yawning at the back).

Anyway after going into a tunnel in London they reappear in Spain. Lots of shots of the Ford Galaxie driving through stunning but empty landscapes, Bill finds a dead eagle and Jimmy paints the car white and not a lot else. They drive up into the mountains, and eventually find and climb up to The White Room, Franks turns up again, and then it's all over.

What's it all about? Well it's all supposedly to do with a contract that The KLF signed from a group calling themselves Eternity. Apparently (and I'm thinking a pinch of salt might be best with this) if The KLF were able to show a fictional route to the White Room, then Eternity would divulge the location of the real White Room to them. All sounds a bit X-Files, but then you have to remember just how much The KLF have mythologized themselves, and also how influenced they were by The Illuminatus! Trilogy of books by Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson. So anything is possible with that in mind. Anyway there were stories about the film being finished, with proper actors coming in and everything, but nothing came of it and that was that. I'd honestly say that if you're a fan then you have to see this, but for the casual film fan I'd say don't bother there are better ways to waste 45 minutes of your life. Go stick on the White Room LP instead.

Bird on a Wire (1974) - Tony Palmer

Leonard Cohen tour film documentary in much the same vain as Dont Look Back. This was filmed during laughing Len's '72 European tour and is as much about what goes on behind the scenes as what happens up on the stage. Thought lost for the past thirty years, it's an absolute joy to finally be able to watch it. Obviously the soundtrack is wall to wall Cohen, he's in good form too, with a great band that included Jennifer Warnes on backing vocals and legendary producer Bob Johnston on organ. Cohen himself is in great voice, and actually isn't the bringer of doom that people tend to think he is. He smiles (a lot) and even cracks a fair few jokes.

There's plenty of fly on the wall footage, you'll see Cohen being chatted up by a variety of ladies, talking typical 70's nonsense, crying backstage and best of all smoking but not inhaling. There are arguments with promoters over faulty monitors, disgruntled fans in Denmark getting all riled up over bad sound and a never ending flow of journalists, none of whom dare to take Len up on any of the claptrap that pours out of his mouth every time he opens it. Weirdest of all is the final gig in Tel Aviv, everything (including Cohen) falls apart and things get very strange indeed. It's a real cracker of a documentary, so if you're already a fan of the old boy then this is without doubt something you should consider getting your mitts on as soon as possible.

The Secret Policeman's Other Ball (1982) - Julien Temple

Badly dated now, but cool as fuck at the time, this is the fourth Amnesty knees up charity event. Far better than the last one which was plain woeful, this one trots out most of the usual bods and a few for the time fresh faces. Alexi Sayle doing his vinegar lipped sweary stand up is pretty decent, as is a pre peodo outing Chris Langham. The revue style comedy of the old guard seems dated when placed next to the newer louder courser comedians. Cleese was already well into his unfunny period which sadly he never returned from. Best of the oldies is the ever brilliant Alan Bennett, he's actually the best thing about the whole show. Not a huge surprise I guess, but his routine is almost like research for his screenplay for Prick Up Your Ears. Best of the new crowd is Victoria Wood, looking like Dobby from Peep Show, but with the lyrical prowess of someone who would go on to influence Morrissey.

But it's not all comedy, as with the other shows there is music too, well in a sense. Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck stodge about on stage, trading 'licks' and Clappers gives it some with his reedy little voice. Awful stuff. Although watching Beck you can clearly see how much of an influence he was on Nigel Tufnel. As for the other 'music' inflicted upon the poor sods in the audience that night, well you had Phil Collins plonking his way through In the Air Tonight, like a man who's thinking about what to do when he gets home. Sting is the star of the show getting three songs, two totally solo which only highlight just how poor a lyricist he is, and one 'gather round all the people who've been in the show it's the grand finale, and I'm going to murder I Shall be Released', type of affair. Which he does with a certain amount of style, if cod reggae is the style in question. Surprisingly it's a long past his sell by date Donovan who is my favourite singer of the night. He arrives to a heckle of 'I thought you were dead', which he brushes aside before launching into a sublime version of Catch the Wind, accompanied by Danny Thompson on double bass.

Is this worth watching? Well probably not, it's that bad but it's not that great either. There is a real sense of Cleese and Palin being out of touch compared to the newer more political comedians. The music feels like a warm up for the horror that was Live Aid, Geldof even pops up to act his little socks off for I Don't Like Mondays. Look carefully at the end and you'll even spot Midge Ure's pointy sideburns in that 'grand' finale. Urgh.

The Red Shoes (1948) - Michael Powell

What's the first thing that pops into your mind when you see or hear the words The Archers? If it's something to do with the fictional village of Ambridge then you probably don't qualify as a film bore/obsessive. If however you think of the film production team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, then that would probably explain why you are reading a film blog in the first place. Between 1943 and 1957 they created some of the greatest British films ever, including this little beauty that I'm writing about here. 

Year in year out, there are certain films and directors that I always return to. Twelve months doesn't pass in my home without a handful of Kurosawa, Coen Brothers, Loach, Hitchcock and a whole stack of others films being stuffed into the DVD player. That goes double for Powell & Pressburger films, well the good ones at any rate, of which there are more than enough.

Anyway onto The Red Shoes, it's loosely based on the fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. The film is about the sacrifices artists have to make for the sake of their art, the extremes that people push themselves to, and the general idea that what the viewer sees is only half the story. Quite often great works of art are born out of pain, tragedy and those other dark things that most ordinary people spend their lives trying to avoid. This is true not only of films, but sport, writing, music, dance, comedy, painting, almost everything in fact. Maybe that's why we are so drawn to people like Francis Bacon, George Best, William Burroughs, Spike Milligan et cetera. Okay so let's get back on track shall we?

Anton Walbrook in possibly his finest role is Boris Lermontov, the hard headed cold hearted founder of the world famous Ballet Lermontov. Moira Shearer is Vicky Page a young gifted dancer, and Marius Goring is Julian Craster a young composer and the last of our doomed triangle of characters. Right from the get go we are thrown straight into the world of ballet, with the real world staying well and truly outside. Come back though, even if you have no interest or knowledge of ballet (like myself), have no fear since we are guided through this foreign land by our two novices Vicky Page and Julian Craster. Both of whom are plucked from obscurity by Lermontov, and put to work on creating a ballet of The Red Shoes. Of course Page and Craster fall for each other, much to Lermontov's annoyance. In his world you choose either life or ballet, there is no third option. It's this that is the meat of the film and what propels it along to it's tragic ending.

Now this being directed by Powell you know it's going to look stunning (which it does), but on top of that we have Jack Cardiff, who I doubt anyone would argue is one of the greatest cinematographers ever. Cardiff received special training from Technicolor on how to best use their process. Obviously an apt student Cardiff makes this one of the best British Technicolor films you'll ever see. Especially the 17 minute long ballet sequence in the middle. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that didn't I? Powell & Pressburger are audacious enough to be able to slip The Red Shoes ballet into the center of the film. It's a condensed version, but all the same the fact that it doesn't ruin the flow of the film is a masterstroke. The Red Shoes is quite simply about a pair of enchanted (aren't they always?) shoes that once put on, are unable to stop dancing. This leads to the heroine of the ballet literally dancing herself to death. As far as stories within stories go, this is one of the best. Obviously anyone that knows their films will realise that the story of The Red Shoes ballet has to be echoed in The Red Shoes film. Which of course it is.

There is so much to say about this film, for a start it is so opulent, so lavish, with post war Britain still on rations, life must have felt as if it was in black & white, so this was the type of escapism that people deserved and needed. I'd say if you haven't seen it then you really should try and alter that as soon as possible. It's a perfect rainy Sunday afternoon film, best seen with tea and digestives. Those that have seen it will know that rather than reading about it, it is far better to dig it out and watch it again. I'm still kicking myself for missing out on the opportunity of seeing this at the cinema last year. But then that's me all over, maybe next time, eh?

Louie Bluie (1985) - Terry Zwigoff

Zwigoff's first effort at directing is this documentary about obscure Chicago blues fella Howard Armstrong. Zwigoff is a man obviously drawn to the more eccentric chappies in life, since Armstrong is the flipside to that other oddball Zwigoff spent years following around (for his excellent second documentary Crumb), yeah you guessed it - Robert Crumb. You see Armstrong (who's nickname is the title of this doc), not only plays a mean fiddle and mandolin, but also dabbles in painting and drawing. His art is pretty good, I was particularly impressed with his porn bible, which he keeps locked in a special case. Oh yes eccentric doesn't really do him justice. He reminded me a fair bit of Screamin' Jay Hawkins too, both are around the same age and seem to have an endless well from which they draw mad story after mad story. Except with Jay you know quite a bit of it is front, both do share exquisite taste in clothes though.

At just one hour long, this was an easy watch, not all that much happens really. Armstrong travels back to where he grew up telling his story and playing songs with various folk as he goes. This is intercut with footage of him in Chicago, telling stories and you'll never guess (well alright you probably will), playing songs with various old blokes. The music was okay but nothing to make you wonder how this guy had slipped through the cracks of success. Nonetheless as I say it was watchable, and you have to applaud people like Zwigoff for putting the years in to make something like this, despite the fact that it's appeal is (cough) limited to put it mildly. Kudos as well to Criterion for sticking this out on DVD last year. I'm just hoping this means that during 2011 we'll see Ghost World come out via them too. Fingers crossed eh.

The Clash - Westway to the World (2000) - Don Letts

Bloody hell, no one told me about The Clash. It wasn't until I moved to Sweden before I realised just how great they were. I was well into my twenties by then, having been weaned on the lie that Punk had been a British invention, and that The Sex Pistols were the main thing to check out from year zero. Well that's what you get if you grow up believing what you read in the N.M.E. I guess. So it's my own fault.

Except as I said no one told me about The Clash. Of course I knew the odd song here and there, and they sounded pretty good, I can remember giving their first album a go just to see if they were for me, and thinking that it was pretty ordinary. Then I happened to be at a friends house drinking and talking, with Sandinista gurgling away in the background. Gradually I started to wonder just what the fuck were we listening to? I bought it the next day, and from then on made sure I told everyone about The Clash.

Westway to the World is essential viewing whether you have been told about the genius of The Clash or not. For the five year period between their eponymous debut and their last hurrah, The Clash developed at a phenomenal rate, taking in just about every kind of music there is. They covered reggae tracks, put out double and then triple albums and played Shea Stadium before imploding. All of which (and a whole lot more), is covered in fine style in this documentary. There's stories about being run out of Kingston, playing 17 (or was it 16) nights in a row in New York, squatting in London, signing to a major label (Punk died the day The Clash signed to CBS) and recording the first British Hip Hop single. All that and Mick Jones' awful hair.

Much like the equally essential The Filth and the Fury from the same year, the story is told by the band members themselves, mix into that stacks of rare footage and you can't go wrong. The Filth and the Fury is the slightly better documentary, but I'd say both should be not just seen but owned and watched at least once a year. Of course they don't go beyond Combat Rock, so Cut the Crap isn't mentioned. You'll find similar things happening in documentaries about The Doors and The Velvet Underground. But that's a small niggle, and to be honest for the sake of ending the documentary well it's probably the right thing to do.

The Clash really clicked when Topper Headon joined. It all started to fall apart when they booted him out for being a smack addict. If The Smiths had been able to have seen this doc when touring The Queen is Dead, then they might have survived a few more years. There's a moral in this film. When a band works, do not, no matter what, fuck about with that which makes it work. This is where a decent manager should earn their percentage. You can't go booting out someone who you think is 'just' the drummer or bass player, it might take a while but it's either the end, or at best things are going to change radically (and normally not in a good way). Anyway if you don't own anything by The Clash and with Christmas just around the corner, why not stick London Calling on that wants list? Or if you're feeling really brave, the unwieldy beast that is Sandinista. You won't regret it, I promise.