The Sex Pistols and their absurd notion of honesty
D.O.A.: A Rite of Passage turns the camera on the late ’70s punk scene that festered in London, Toronto and on and the coasts of the United States.
It also frames the legendary Sex Pistols tour of the American deep south, an event rife for confrontation and sensationalism from a time when rock and roll carried cultural weight.
I first saw this documentary in Toronto in 1981, screened to a surprisingly small crowd of devotees in a surprisingly small theatre. This wasn’t a mainstream event. While only important to some, it was vital to a group of outsiders who got on the ride early and were privy to the energy of punk.
The glue from 1977 still sticks. This is a beautifully restored film, a rough and tumble hand-held documentary of the early illformed days of punk, still carrying the glam baggage of Bowie, Bolan and Roxy Music. It’s now an anthropological dig through events that have gathered dust over 40 years but still jar our sensibilities.
D.O.A. is a wide-open lens on loads of curbside opinions by enthusiastic loudmouths, portraits of alienated youth and all kinds of appalling behaviour. It’s also a film brimming with humour, both knowing and ridiculous and stemming from The Sex Pistols and their absurd notion of honesty, a band that put out one album and then promptly released a greatest hits LP. The Pistols told you up front they were trying to scam you, they didn’t sell you a bill of goods, they let you know they just wanted your filthy lucre.
The spectre of the Pistols’ manager, svengali Malcolm McLaren, is completely absent from the film denying him the stature of master architect of the whole debacle. We are treated to decent, aggressive Pistols performances early in the tour, Johnny Rotten with the burning eyes, Paul Cook and Steve Jones loud and strong, Sid Vicious making it to the last number unbloodied, a perfect visual fourth member contrasting with the ultimate shadow of his demise.
We are also treated to his bloody nose optics, poster boy punk junkie, a bandaged romantic for the damaged. Christian extremists protest the Pistols’ arrival, branding them as uncaring anti-Christs, while inside Johnny Rotten redefines the term “frontman” covered in cream from Twinkies hurled from the audience.
This was a full-on rock tour, roadies and lighting rigs, no more amp on a kitchen chair like those early charming photos and magazine reports from England and heartwarming “I Hate Pink Floyd” T-shirts.
A trip to Graceland is used to contrast the recent demise of the King with the new runtish knave, both prone to an expressive curled lip. At one point a billboard is shown heralding The Sex Pistols — next week Merle Haggard.
This would also be the last of the Pistols, culminating in their final show in San Francisco. It was their single concession to
urban punks, with the involvement of concert promoter Bill Graham they’d become just like any other act. Their final statement from the stage was “Did you ever get the feeling that you’ve been cheated?”
The film also chronicles life in late ’70s London combined with performances by The Clash, X-Ray Spex, former Pistol Glen Matlock’s Rich Kids, an overwrought and emotional Jimmy Pursey in Sham 69 and a young Billy Idol with Generation X. There are some philosophical moments and a brief performance snippet from Terry and the Idiots.
This is the post-Pistols world, although there’s no shortage of the same disgust and condemnation from the media featuring great declarations of brow-furrowed horror.
Lech Kowalski’s film is a straightforward take on the unique and confusing punk phenomena and it gives the audience credit to interpret for themselves what they’re seeing on the screen.
The Film House presents this documentary on New Year’s Eve at 7 p.m.