ZAPPA SHOWCASES BRILLIANCE
But Stardust doesn't deliver, cutting David Bowie as a dour and morose man
Rock legend Frank Zappa was many things. One could almost say he was every thing. No less an authority than his widow, Gail, calls him “a walking mass of contradictions.” She then adds: “He was consistent in those contradictions.”
The new film Zappa may run long for the rock-doc genre — two hours and nine minutes — but it has a lot of ground to cover. Opening with Zappa's last recorded guitar performance in 1991 — he died of cancer two years later — it then reels back to examine a storied and creative childhood, and a life grounded in music, but encompassing so much more.
Zappa engaged in movie scores, greeting cards, political wrangling — he spoke out ferociously against censorship, even though it was others' music that was raising the ire of U.S. lawmakers — and he even had a brief stint as Czechoslovakia's “Special Ambassador to the West on Trade, Culture and Tourism.”
Along the way he also crafted a huge body of music — not all of it to all tastes. He once joked (but not really) that his encore number was a song that would make people not want to hear anything else from him, ever.
Filmmaker Alex Winter is the man behind this crowdsourced, shaggy love letter of a documentary.
Winter, recently in front of the camera reprising his role as fellow musician Bill S. Preston, Esq., was granted rare access to Zappa's extensive archives and seems to have made the most of it, complementing the man's home movies, rehearsal sessions, concert footage and more with an eclectic mix of weird, wonderful stock images. Zappa is clearly required viewing for fans. I've never counted myself among that group, but watching this film made me want to be.
Far less effective is the musical biopic Stardust, about British rock icon David Bowie. Even calling it “musical” might be going too far. The film, directed by Gabriel Range (2006's mockdoc Death of a President), went ahead without the blessing of Bowie's family, and as such was unable to use any of his music.
Imagine the film First Man if it neglected to include the moon landing. Pollock without painting. Or The Queen's Gambit if they'd decided not to show any chess.
“What follows is (mostly) fiction,” the opening credits read, and I believe it.
As Bowie, Johnny Flynn cuts a dour, morose figure. It's 1971, his career is stalled in spite of some early success with the likes of Space Oddity, and he's on a trip to the U.S. to try to make it there.
Lack of proper paperwork means he isn't allowed to perform, which is the film's way of getting around its own significant shortcoming, which should have been a deal-breaker. So even when Flynn sings, it's covers of others' music.
Oh, and the title is problematic. Sure, it's an oblique reference to Bowie's 1972 album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. But it's also the name of a bad-butnot-forgotten fantasy film from 2007 and, more troubling, a 1974 biopic by Michael Apted about Jim MacLaine of Stray Cats.
Perhaps a better title for this one might have been The Film That Fell to Earth.