Rock Films The Rise and Fall of Rock Film Thomas Wiener American film magazine December 1975 ΜΟΥΣΙΚΗ Κινηματογραφικά

 

Rock Films

The Rise and Fall of Rock Film

From Woodstcok to Stardust

the Parade’s Gone By

Thomas Wiener

American Film magazine December 1975

ΜΟΥΣΙΚΗ

Κινηματογραφικά

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Until A Hard Day’s Night (1964) and Help! (1965), rock movies followed a pattern of sprinkling exploitable rock acts throughout a trite story of show-biz shenanigans or teen love. While some genuinely exciting rock talent had found its way into films, the state of rock music by the early sixties was flagging badly, with the talented innovators being replaced by a bland crew of imitators whose music drifted dangerously toward mainstream pop. The Beatles reversed that drift, and their films, brilliantly directed by Richard Lester, dispensed with a story line and revealed the Beatles to be individual personalities as well as talented rock and roll performers.

 

   The success of the Beatles’ films also inspired a series of films featuring, revue-style, a lineup of British pop stars. While Go-Go Bigbeat and Go Go Mania (both released in 1965) served to introduce or reacquaint American rock fans with their British favorites, neither had the strong lineup that American International’s The T.A.M.l. Show (1965) had. All three of these films dispensed with any pretense of a story and concentrated on presenting the acts either in a TV studio or in a theater packed with young fans.

 

  The T.A.M.l. Show [(1964)] delivered best. The acts covered nearly all the bases of rock music, and many performers went on to become lasting stars. Filmed in the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, with surfing music twins Jan and Dean as MCs, the film brought together an old master (Chuck Berry), several Motown acts (the Supremes, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles), Mr. Soul (James Brown), a nice Jewish girl (Lesley Gore), a hot British group (the Rolling Stones), and the senior citizens of surf music (the Beach Boys). While the photography and direction were functional at best, the performers all seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as the audience.

 

   Quick to capitalize on this new format, in 1966 American International came up with The Big TNT Show, this time selecting an even wider variety of music. The popularity of folk music was represented by Joan Baez and Donovan; there was another old master (Bo Diddley), an authentic genius (Ray Charles), and the rockfolk-country groups (the Byrds and the Lovin’ Spoonful).

 

 

[ Festival ] (1967)

   The third of the big rock revue films of the mid-sixties was Murray Lerner’s Festival (1967), an engaging collection of several years of performances at the Newport Folk Festival. Among the performances was Bob Dylan’s 1965 set with the Paul Butterfield Blues Band in which Dylan introduced some of his “electric” material. The audience’s reaction in the film was highly audible; boos and angry shouts greeted Dylan’s rendition of “Maggie’s Farm.” It was the first moment in rock movies in which the faithful expressed a negative reaction to the music. The audience, prepared for Dylan’s acoustic guitar and folk songs, didn’t appreciate the intrusion of rock upon their festival, but Dylan couldn’t ignore the power of rock; he was tired of being constrained by the label ‘ ‘folk singer. ’ ’

 

[ Don’t Look Back ]  (1967) 

   Just how tired Dylan could be with labels was brilliantly documented in D. A. Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back (1967), a record of Dylan’s 1965 tour of Great Britain. Whether Dylan’s music was rock, folk, or pop, what mattered was that his listeners took it seriously, and no one was more aware of this than Dylan himself. Don’t Look Back suggested that a rock performer could be troubled by the adulation of his fans, and not just because he feared for his physical safety as he left a concert hall. The tension which surrounded Dylan, who was bombarded with even more inane questions about his music than those which greeted the Beatles (who, after all, only wanted to hold her hand; Dylan was talking about a hard rain falling and masters of war), was palpable in nearly every scene. The pop star, a product of his fans (here, an obtuse science student and three giggling girls), his manager (a genial and conniving Albert Grossman), and the media (a mystified reporter from Time), was now shown as an unwilling captive of all three.

 

[ Privilege ] (1967) 

    The image of the pop star as a trapped creature surfaced again in Peter Watkins’s Privilege (1967), a study of a rock singer of the near future who becomes an unwilling tool of a conspiracy between the Church of England and the government to keep rebellious youth in line. Anticipating the theatricality of rock in the seventies, the film featured Paul Jones (formerly lead singer with the British band, Manfred Mann) singing in manacles in an act meant to stir the hearts and minds of his teenaged audience and to make them more receptive to the government’s policies. Privilege seemed farfetched and hysterical to some critics, but it did point out the growing influence of rock over a significant segment of England’s population.

 

   By the late sixties, changes in rock music were occurring so rapidly that movie exploiters could barely keep pace. The popularity of folk music was a problem for the exploiters. There wasn’t fast money in the folk scene, just a lot of peaceful-looking kids sitting around listening to someone protest a war. It took the summer of 1967 to provide the exploiters with all the material they would need for the next few years. It was the “Summer of Love,” and San Francisco was the place. The word “hippie” was coined, and the new brand of bohemianism became a source for an endless stream of nonmusical films about flower children, LSD trips, and young runaways.

 

[ Monterey Pop ] (1969) 

    Down the coast, in Monterey, the annual jazz festival was supplemented by a new pop festival, and D. A. Pennebaker was there to film it. The result, Monterey Pop, was another step forward for the rock revue film. By the time the film was released in 1969, the music of all the groups in the film, some of whom were then unknown outside the Bay Area, was well known to all rock fans, and the film played to enormously enthusiastic audiences.

   What Pennebaker captured in Monterey Pop, besides some stirring musical performances, was a strong sense of that summer’s mood. In the film’s opening shot, a girl talks in a childlike voice about the festival, claiming that it was going to be like Christmas, New Year’s, and her birthday combined, that vibrations would be flowing. Previous rock revues, filmed in crowded theaters, never articulated audience reactions beyond the standard shots of girls screaming and applauding.

   The fans at Monterey were different; the atmosphere was different. It was laidback, mellow, and appreciatively cool, almost like the Newport audiences in Festival, but without any looks of intensity. Even when The Who smashed their guitars and set off smoke bombs, the Monterey audience seemed too spaced out to even be amazed.

   The feeling from Monterey Pop itself was indeed one of good vibrations, although in the succeeding years, the film has taken on an undercurrent of sadness. Monterey Pop features six young performers who have died since the summer of 1967: Otis Redding, Al Wilson, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Cass Elliott, and Brian Jones, the MC of the festival. Besides setting music in a cultural context, the film’s historical importance has been increased by its recording of these performers.

 

[ Woodstock ] (1970) 

   With all the directions which rock movies were taking, by 1970 there was still no single film that tied the whole scene together. In the spring of 1970, Michael Wadleigh’s Woodstock was released, and the timing couldn’t have been better, if only from a commercial standpoint. Publicity surrounding the film had been building since the festival itself, which took place in August, 1969. Woodstock was an event which received a tremendous amount of media attention, not just for its outstanding lineup of performers, but for the fulfillment of the “Summer of Love’s” promise that music, peace, and love would make it all right. Over a half-million kids together for three days, and there were no serious incidents. “Amazing!” cried the media.

 

   Even more amazing was the movie. Financed by a major studio, Warner Bros., dozens of cameramen shot thousands of feet of film, which the studio at first insisted on cutting to a normal feature length in time for Christmas release. (The exploitative mentality was again at work, figuring that half the groups in the film would be off the charts after Christmas.) Wadleigh’s insistence on a longer film prevailed, and Woodstock was released in the spring of 1970 with a running time of three hours.

 

   Woodstock was the epic rock film. Performance is intrinsically a part of rock and roll; Woodstock recognized this, and presented as wide a variety of performers as possible, although it concentrated on performers with charismatic stage routines such as Joe Cocker, The Who, Sha-Na-Na, Jimi Hendrix, and Richie Havens. Early rock revue films seemed to restrict their performers’ movements, but Monterey Pop showed a few acts like Hendrix and The Who cutting loose, and Woodstock seemed to set nearly everyone free. The enormous and enormously good-humored crowd obviously turned-on the performers.

   Woodstock was an experience in itself. If you weren’t at the festival, you could practically experience it all through the movie. Three hours in a theater seat was no substitute for three days in mud and rain with clogged toilets and half-cooked food, but Wadleigh involved his movie audience as members of the Woodstock nation by interspersing the performances with shots of the audience listening, playing, making love, practicing yoga, swimming, and even breaking down, although negative aspects were kept to a minimum to perpetuate the myth.

   Finally, the film was light years in technical expertise beyond any previous rock performance film. The photography was usually in focus, the editing crisp and imaginative. Wadleigh and his editors employed the split screen to involve the theater audience even more closely with the performers, and the effects nearly always worked. In fact, many people who were at the festival went to the movie to see what music they had missed. After all, no one at Woodstock enjoyed the vantage points Wadleigh’s camera crew had or heard the quality of the music, remixed by sound technicians, played at high volume over theater stereo speakers. Woodstock was a chance for people to relive an event, almost like watching one’s self on the 7 p.m. news, marching in a peace demonstration held that very same day.

   Woodstock was also rock exploitation at its highest level. Although the festival was planned as the greatest collection of rock stars ever assembled, its promoters did not anticipate the event’s huge turnout of people, nor the relative ease with which logistical problems were handled. As later festivals would prove, Woodstock was something of a fluke. But in the spring of 1970, no one could tell that to the long lines of people waiting to see the film, to relive “three days of peace, love, and music.”

 

 

    The Woodstock myth was cruelly shattered by the events at Altamont Speedway in December, 1969, and the good vibrations which peaked with the film Woodstock were grounded by the Altamont film, Gimme Shelter, released in December, 1970.

[ Gimme Shelter ]  (1970 ) 

   Like Woodstock, Gimme Shelter was part calculated exploitation and part accident. In this case, Albert and David Maysles and their associate, Charlotte Zwerin, were filming the Rolling Stones’ 1969 American tour, which was to culminate in a free outdoor concert at Altamont. The film, which might have ridden on the euphoric wave created by Woodstock, became instead its sobering counterpoint. To the Maysles’ and Zwerin’s credit, they did not play down the tragic events at Altamont; in fact, they structured the film around them.

   Gimme Shelter raised serious questions about the ability of music to make everything all right. One of the film’s most poignant moments came during the set by the Jefferson Airplane, when fighting breaks out between the Hell’s Angels, hired as security for the Stones, and several people in the crowd. Members of the Jefferson Airplane, the most popular band that summer, attempt to calm the crowd with homilies about loving one another, but the crowd seems bewildered. No one seems to be able to stem the madness which is swelling up about the stage. By the time the Rolling Stones come on, well after sunset, a real tragedy is inevitable, and an Angel spots a black youth waving what appears to be a gun and stabs him to death. In the Maysles’ editing room several months later, Mick Jagger watched the murder. The Maysles ran it over and over for him, but no emotion seemed to register on his face.

   And like Mick Jagger, the youthful rock movie fans weren’t sure how to react to Gimme Shelter. Its distributor claimed the picture was not a financial loss, but was a disappointment in terms of expectations. He cited the kids’ unwillingness to confront an event which seemed to deny everything that Woodstock had exemplified. The movie was inconclusive about responsibility for the events at Altamont, but in some ways the real villain was the Woodstock myth, which allowed everyone — the Rolling Stones, their business managers, the fans — to blithely skip into a potentially dangerous situation with the idea that music would have charms to soothe even the most savage Angel.

 

   Gimme Shelter was not the only rock movie of 1970 to suggest that not all was well in rock and roll. The Beatles’ breakup was documented in Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s Let It Be (1970), which showed them straining to complete their final album with little of the conviviality which marked the two Lester films. Mick Jagger's portrayal of a reclusive rock star in Performance (1970, crime drama film)  includes the observation that “the only performance is madness itself.” And Groupies (1970) mercilessly exposed the pathetic world of rock sexual hangers-on.

 

   The more personal, country-flavored music of the early seventies, in which the individual performer was more important than the bands of the sixties, was nearly as difficult to exploit as the folk music of the mid-sixties had been. A few films, however, struggled to retain the spirit of Monterey Pop and Woodstock.

[ Fillmore ]  ( 1972 ) 

   Fillmore (1972) was a fine revue film, but its real star was promoter Bill Graham, who was closing his Fillmore theaters because of rising costs, excessive demands by pampered stars, and rowdy behavior by audiences. The film of the Concert for Bangladesh traded in on some big names — Bob Dylan and George Harrison — while claiming to donate a large portion of its grosses to charity. But the concert took place in cavernous and impersonal Madison Square Garden, and the film conveyed no sense of the audience interacting with the performers, who were more sincere than exciting.

 

   The one trend that emerged from these less frenetic days was nostalgia. Rock had at last acquired a sense of its past, and it turned toward what it pictured as the golden early days when the energy level was high and the possibilities for music to change the world seemed limitless.

   Elvis Presley began making personal appearances again, as documented in two films, Elvis — That’s the Way It Is (1970) and Elvis on Tour (1972), which featured the one-time king of the greasers playing to middle-aged audiences in Las Vegas.

 

   Jimi Hendrix, one of the sixties most exciting stage performers, was resurrected from his death in 1970 for three films, the best of which was A Film About Jimi Hendrix (1973), a modest appraisal of his career.

 

   D. A. Pennebaker weighed in with Keep on Rockin' (Sweet Toronto) (1970), featuring performances by four of rock’s early giants: Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bo Diddley, and Little Richard.

 

   The two most important nostalgia films of the early seventies were American Graffiti (1973) and Let the Good Times Roll (1973).

 

[ Let the Good Times Roll ] (1973)

   The film “Let the Good Times Roll”(1973) combined performances from Richard Nader’s popular rock and roll revival shows with clips of the performers in rock films and documentary footage from the fifties. The film was packaged as slickly as those TV ads in which Chubby Checker lets you know where to send your $5.98 for a record of Golden Oldies. Nevertheless, most of the performers showed they could still strut their stuff, including Little Richard, well aware of the camera, cutting up to compensate for all those fifties films in which the director told him to cool his act lest the Legion of Decency condemn the film.

 

[ American Graffiti ] (1973)

   American Graffiti’s affectionate look at early sixties small-town America, where “cruising” was the only way for most teens to pass the time, was also an excuse to pack over forty old rock tunes onto a soundtrack, even if some of the songs were not contemporary to the story’s time. George Lucas, the director, managed to evoke the simpler times by keeping up a steady stream of oldies, presumably playing on the various car radios, although one had the feeling that the music was more important than the story. American Graffiti had some fine comic moments, but eventually strained for too much significance by updating the lives of the four protagonists in a brief epilogue.

 

 

[ Phantom of  the Paradise ] (1974)

   The only approach to rock left seemed to be parody. And Brian De Palma took it in Phantom of the Paradise (1974), which owes as much of its visual imagery and ideas to old movies like Psycho and Phantom of the Opera as to rock and roll. De Palma shrewdly used smarmy Paul Williams as a greedy rock tycoon, but his choice of Williams’s music was less fortunate. The music lacked the earthiness and directness of rock; Williams is not a rock composer, and his material seems more suited to a story about two doomed lovers who go to rock and roll heaven than to a horror story.

   However, the film’s parodies of rock trends — nostalgia, surf music, rock Grand Guignol, and glitter rock — were performed with verve and humor by Gerrit Graham as Beef, the effeminate glitter rocker, and the trio of Harold Obling, Jeffrey Comanor, and Archie Hahn as the Juicy Fruits (nostalgia), the Beach Bums (surf), and the Undead (Grand Guignol). Although Williams’s songs in these scenes were only functional, the stage routines were the highlights of the film.

 

   Rock is difficult to parody anyway, because it rarely takes itself seriously. However, with the release in 1967 of the Beatles’ album, “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” some serious music critics, as well as a new generation of rock critics, began writing weightier dissections of rock music and lyrics.

 

   And in 1969, The Who released “Tommy,” the cover of which read “Opera by Pete Townshend” (The Who’s lead guitarist). Indeed, the songs in the album, mostly sung by the group’s Roger Daltrey, told a story of a blind, deaf and dumb pinball wizard turned messiah. The reaction was immediate. Loud hosannas from critics who had been ignoring The Who for years. Big sales. Claims for rock’s coming of age. Discussions of Tommy’s significance to today’s youth searching for new messiahs. And talk of further Tommys.

 

[ Tommy ] (1975)

   Inevitably, there was the movie. Ken Russell’s Tommy (1975) however, did nothing more than prove that a wellpromoted rock film could make money in 1975. No more. The concept of Tommy was hardly revolutionary. Russell broke no new ground cinematically, except maybe in having actors like Oliver Reed and Jack Nicholson attempt to sing rock. Tommy's subject matter is hardly profound, as Townshend himself has admitted. That the rock opera was reportedly touted by Russell as “the greatest work of art the twentieth century has produced,” probably had more to do with promoting a movie than comparing the music of Pete Townshend to the painting of Picasso, the writing of Joyce, and even the music of Stravinsky or Ellington.

    Tommy was conceived and marketed in the same old way. It exploited the rock opera like any movie exploits its best-seller source. It employed several big rock names and actors for marquee value; and its publicity—“Your senses will never be the same”—promised us a return to those thrilling psychedelic days of yesteryear.

    The film did have its moments, usually the musical numbers by professionals like Elton John and Tina Turner, and one sensational scene with Roger Daltrey as Tommy, leading a revival meeting by singing into a cross-shaped microphone.

 

Ann-Margret and Roger Daltrey (Tommy)

 

 

 

[ Stardust ] (1974)

    If Tommy failed as the ultimate in rock movies, another 1975 release proved to be the best dramatic film about rock and roll. Stardust was a kind of Jailhouse Rock with a downbeat seventies ending. The film begins on the evening of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination with British, working-class singer Jim Maclaine meeting old friend Mike Menarry and asking him to manage his band, the Stray Cats. Carried on the tidal wave of popularity British groups achieved during the mid-sixties, the group becomes quite successful, and Maclaine goes on to become a solo star, composing a rock “cantata.”

   Instead of ending the story with Maclaine at the peak of his career, the film depicts his “retirement” to a renovated castle in Spain where he becomes a virtual recluse, unable to write or perform. Finally, on the day of an internationally televised interview at the castle, Maclaine overdoses and dies on the way to a hospital.

   Stardust (1974, musical drama film) is a well crafted film, with smooth direction by Michael Apted and a script by Ray Connolly which adroitly covers ten years. The sudden metamorphosis of Maclaine and his band from working class rockers to international celebrities is accomplished with believability and a strong feeling for the inner workings of the music business. In fact, the business of rock is documented here with more detail than any film since Gimme Shelter. At one point, Mike, trying to defend Jim’s career decisions to Maclaine’s American business manager, says, “That’s his business.” The manager snaps back, “Yeah, but it’s our money.” Like Dylan, Jim Maclaine is sometimes portrayed as the captive of business interests, as well as of the hyperbolic media and an adoring public.

    The film achieves authenticity in several ways. The cast is carefully selected. Maclaine is played by David Essex, a British pop star in his own right, and Mike is played by Adam Faith, a pop singer in the early sixties turned actor when his singing career faltered. The Stray Cats are all played by British rock musicians, including the irrepressible Keith Moon of The Who. The sound track is littered with rock songs of the sixties; they are heard only in snatches on car radios or jukeboxes so that the music remains an important background element rather than a prominent attempt at nostalgia.

 

   What lifts Stardust above all previous dramatic rock films is its awareness of what fuels the rock star and of what may have caused so many premature career failures or deaths among those stars. As Greil Marcus has written, “What links the greatest rock and roll careers is a volcanic ambition; in some cases, a refusal to know when to quit or even rest.” As Mike admits of Jim in Stardust, “He wanted to be more famous than anyone else; that was a lot of crap about rock and roll.” Although Marcus was talking about Elvis, he might have been discussing any number of rock stars whose lives or careers never survived the hectic sixties. Jim Maclaine’s consuming ambition left him nothing after he had achieved success. The theme is not limited to the rock scene of the sixties and seventies, and for that reason Stardust achieves some distinction as a film about human problems rather than another rip-off of some current trend in rock.

 

   Many of the rock movies of the early seventies dealt with death in various forms, whether it was Meredith Hunter’s stabbing at Altamont, the breakup of the Beatles, the closing of the Fillmores, or Jim Maclaine’s overdose. Rock music has always had a morbid fascination with death, and these films of the seventies added the idea that film could instantly record and transmit death. At the end of Stardust, photographers and cameramen race Jim Maclaine’s ambulance to the hospital, all vying for the best shot of the dying star. One is reminded of Dylan’s line from “Desolation Row”: “They’re selling postcards of the hanging.” And of course, the nostalgic films implied that some elements of rock — innocence, energy, and spontaneity — had died with the earliest, crudest, and most direct rock music.

 

   Rock movies raise expectations which are rarely fulfilled. In the fifties, we were promised Chuck Berry and Little Richard, but had to sit through a sappy story of teen love in order to catch one or two numbers by the real stars of the film. The Beatles and the performers of Woodstock said “all we needed was love”, but Let It Be and Gimme Shelter forced us to confront the banal world of personality conflicts and shady business dealings, as well as the darker side of human nature. Nostalgia took us back to simpler years, but also reminded us that the present might be too confusing or too threadbare to sustain us.

 

   Rock movies have fallen on hard times not because there isn’t music for them, but because producers are uncertain of which trends to exploit. If rock movies are to be revived, it may take a major event similar to the rise of the Beatles to do it, for most filmmakers react only to what is most visible and positive about rock. Although Stardust showed that there are possibilities for serious films about rock music, it seems doubtful whether such a downbeat film can become popular with rock fans. And if there is nothing exploitable happening in rock, chances are that rock movies simply won't be produced.

 

 

 

   Thomas Wiener is on the staff of The American Film Institute Catalog.

   The first part of this article appeared in November's American Film.

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

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[ ανάρτηση 15 Φεβρουαρίου 2024 :  

Rock Films

The Rise and Fall of Rock Film

From Woodstcok to Stardust

the Parade’s Gone By

Thomas Wiener

American Film magazine December 1975

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