THE DUKE ON
METALLICA - SOME KIND
OF MONSTER
METALLICA - SOME KIND
OF MONSTER
Popular dance act The Beatles, famous for, I believe, a song
about I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, once mused along the lines of
You Can’t Buy Me Love, all about how diamond rings and
“everything” are no substitute for the old cuddle and so on. The
notion was so inspiring that Patrick Dempsey even went ahead and
made a film about it, and also something about lawnmowers and
telescopes. Most of us, however, know that in certain areas at
certain times love can actually be bought for the price of a
pint, but there’s still something to be said for the ponderings
of those fellas what wrote songs about You Never Give Me Your
Money and Money (That’s What I Want, Motherfucker).
It seems that all the money in the world, and legions of fans
what purchase the records and holler drunkenly in stadiums, and
even wall-full’s of bizarre yet highly valuable paintings can’t
put a smile on the face of the fellas what operate under the name
Metallica.
These are some grumpy sons a bitches, is what. You might think
the fellas what sang about Wasting My Hate and the one about a
fella gets his limbs blew off, you might think they would be
never far from a chuckle, but it turns out you’d be wrong, is
what.
Some Kind Of Monster, the flick what follows the band throughout
the recording of the controversial St Anger record, and also in
and out of therapy sessions and so on, serves to create an
endearingly human portrait of these corporate behemoths, and also
to ensure that any misconceptions one might have had about they
must be a bunch of miserable motherfuckers are now put to rest.
It wasn’t a misconception, is the point to be made. These
motherfuckers are just as miserable as you imagined.
Some Kind Of Monster shares a lot of common ground with that
other band-on-the-brink Rockumentary, Let It Be. Just like in the
film about The Beatles, we see a bunch of fellas going in to the
studio under the glare of the cameras and so on, and watch as
they try to pluck something worthwhile from the scraps of riffs
and jams what pepper the first three quarters. Like Let It Be,
there’s a tension a man could slit a wrist on, and the resultant
record is a deliberate attempt to rekindle the sounds and the
emotions what emerged all those years ago, in a Liverpudlian
front room or an amphetamine-charged basement in Hamburg.
There are a few subtle yet important differences, though,
differences what The Duke would point out for to illustrate how
Some Kind Of Monster is probably the better film.
The most important of these distinctions is the fact that Some
Kind Of Monster doesn’t require a particular fondness for the
music of Metallica in order that the flick be enjoyed as it
should.
For all the yacking about The Greatest Rockumentaries Of All Ever
and so on, it is hard to imagine a non-Beatles fan having the
patience to sit through Let It Be’s extended noodlings.
Similarly, The Last Waltz is a masterful work, but even the most
ardent Scorsese fan may find it a tad trying if the music of The
Band is as a razor being dragged ruthlessly across their flesh.
Ironically, though, even though Some Kind Of Monster presents a
Metallica desperately attempting to put the focus back on the
“music”, the “music” is the least of the concerns running rampant
throughout.
Directors Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky previously touched on
the work of Metallica via the distinctly uncomfortable,
infuriating and rather distressing Paradise Lost series of films,
searing documentaries what concerned themselves with the hotly-
debated West Memphis Three, a group of metal fans imprisoned, and
in one case sentenced to death, for the murder of three children.
The films acted as anchors for the resultant howls of protest,
mainly focused on the shockingly flimsy evidence produced for to
convict the three youngsters. As the tagline stated; “It's
frightening to think they did it. It's terrifying to think they
didn't.”
Berlinger, alas, also created the shockingly awful Book Of
Shadows – Blair Witch 2, a commendable but gut-numbingly bad
attempt to subvert the notion of the horror sequel.
So, then, we can probably assume that The Metallicas saw the
Paradise Lost films, and most likely never cast an eye in the
direction of Book Of Shadows.
Some Kind Of Monster is, The Duke feels compelled to relate, a
marvellous work. Tender, brave, compassionate, compulsive, it’s
hard to find a fault anywhere in the damn thing.
Much of the action takes place in, of all places, a load of the
“therapy-sessions”, where the group vent any number of
frustrations with the help of Phil Towle, therapist to all sorts
of sports teams and what not, these bunches of the ego what have
to find a way for to work with one another on account of the
green involved.
Jason Newstead, bassist for Metallica since Cliff Burton was
killed in the late eighties, has just walked, and it’s probably
fair to say that the remaining three are a tad worried that
anyone else might take to the road.
These therapy sessions initially seem like something of an
inconvenience for all involved, but soon mutate, evolving into a
bout of fuck-flinging theatrics, drummer Lars Ulrich screaming
into the face of a comically nonplussed James Hetfield, the ever-
amusing frontman.
Lars Ulrich, in fact, emerges as something of a selfish shit, if
an understandable one. His whining tantrums seem all the
misguided in China when the focus of the abuse is Hetfield,
himself entering a years worth of rehab during the film on
account of the alcoholism nurtured since back when Metallica
where still intending to call their debut record Metal Up Your
Ass.
It’s easy to see Ulrich’s point, his frustration at the noon-till-
four recording times imposed by Hetfield’s recovery, but it’s
also easy to see him as a fella exhibiting a baffling lack of
compassion or thought for anything but the commercial future of
the band.
As someone who has been, and still is, recovering from the old
“Ale-ism”, though, I find myself exhibiting some kind of deep
admiration for Hetfield, his steadfast refusal to allow these
ongoing tensions and bickerings to nudge him off that old wagon
what is ever so mythologized.
Guitarist Kirk Hammet emerges as a highly-sensitive, soft-spoken
mediator, retreating from the searing testosterone for to wander
around his horse-ranch.
The film approaches and exploits a voyeuristic intensity that at
times renders much of the action deeply uncomfortable. Ulrich’s
meeting with one-time member Dave Mustaine, now frontman for
multi-million selling upstarts Megadeth, is particularly near-the-
knuckle. It’s also rather surprising to discover that despite the
stratospheric success of his own outfit, Mustaine is constantly
battling with his perceived standing as “Second-Best”.
At times these adolescent episodes are all the amusing in the
world, these fully-grown multimillionaires exhibiting the
emotional maturity of particularly maladjusted eight-year-olds,
but often the rawness of it all invites little but shock, or
stunned empathy.
For a band so vigilant in the flaunting of their own machismo,
Some Kind Of Monster is a remarkably risky prospect. It’s fine
for, say, Jonathan Davis of KoRn to rant and rave for the
duration of his first-person diatribes against bullies, parents,
the world, but even when Metallica voiced similar concerns in the
likes of Fade To Black, a particularly bleak offering from their
second record, it still seemed like a fantasy, an example of the
band telling a story that had little relation to their own
existence.
Here, as Ulrich seems to weep momentarily during that meeting
with Mustaine, as Hetfield yacks in a matter-of-fact manner about
his feelings and so on, as the whole lot muse on the loss of
Cliff Burton, a wound what is obviously still far-from-healed,
the façade seems to exist within the bravado, rather than the
introspective narratives.
Anyone expecting Metallica to dish out a flick arriving on the
friendly side of two hours has obviously never approached the
four-hour opus A Year And A Half In The Life Of Metallica. What’s
rather surprising, however, is that even at two-and-a-half hours,
Some Kind Of Monster never drags, never appears anything less
than riveting, from the one-on-one conversations dotted
throughout to the sight of Ulrich and Hammet getting all
depressed on account of the gig they go to, a performance by
Newstead’s post-Metallica band Echobrain, turns out to be rather
good, actually.
I find the music of Metallica to be especially wonderful for the
most part, excepting the occasional indulgences of the Load and
Re-Load shenanigans. I feel fairly confident, though, that this
had precious little to do with my enjoyment of this flick. It’s
quite simply a wonderful, candid, revealing and overall sublimely
entertaining slice of the rock-n-roll filmic excursions.
Highly recommended, is what The Duke would like to announce.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
about I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, once mused along the lines of
You Can’t Buy Me Love, all about how diamond rings and
“everything” are no substitute for the old cuddle and so on. The
notion was so inspiring that Patrick Dempsey even went ahead and
made a film about it, and also something about lawnmowers and
telescopes. Most of us, however, know that in certain areas at
certain times love can actually be bought for the price of a
pint, but there’s still something to be said for the ponderings
of those fellas what wrote songs about You Never Give Me Your
Money and Money (That’s What I Want, Motherfucker).
It seems that all the money in the world, and legions of fans
what purchase the records and holler drunkenly in stadiums, and
even wall-full’s of bizarre yet highly valuable paintings can’t
put a smile on the face of the fellas what operate under the name
Metallica.
These are some grumpy sons a bitches, is what. You might think
the fellas what sang about Wasting My Hate and the one about a
fella gets his limbs blew off, you might think they would be
never far from a chuckle, but it turns out you’d be wrong, is
what.
Some Kind Of Monster, the flick what follows the band throughout
the recording of the controversial St Anger record, and also in
and out of therapy sessions and so on, serves to create an
endearingly human portrait of these corporate behemoths, and also
to ensure that any misconceptions one might have had about they
must be a bunch of miserable motherfuckers are now put to rest.
It wasn’t a misconception, is the point to be made. These
motherfuckers are just as miserable as you imagined.
Some Kind Of Monster shares a lot of common ground with that
other band-on-the-brink Rockumentary, Let It Be. Just like in the
film about The Beatles, we see a bunch of fellas going in to the
studio under the glare of the cameras and so on, and watch as
they try to pluck something worthwhile from the scraps of riffs
and jams what pepper the first three quarters. Like Let It Be,
there’s a tension a man could slit a wrist on, and the resultant
record is a deliberate attempt to rekindle the sounds and the
emotions what emerged all those years ago, in a Liverpudlian
front room or an amphetamine-charged basement in Hamburg.
There are a few subtle yet important differences, though,
differences what The Duke would point out for to illustrate how
Some Kind Of Monster is probably the better film.
The most important of these distinctions is the fact that Some
Kind Of Monster doesn’t require a particular fondness for the
music of Metallica in order that the flick be enjoyed as it
should.
For all the yacking about The Greatest Rockumentaries Of All Ever
and so on, it is hard to imagine a non-Beatles fan having the
patience to sit through Let It Be’s extended noodlings.
Similarly, The Last Waltz is a masterful work, but even the most
ardent Scorsese fan may find it a tad trying if the music of The
Band is as a razor being dragged ruthlessly across their flesh.
Ironically, though, even though Some Kind Of Monster presents a
Metallica desperately attempting to put the focus back on the
“music”, the “music” is the least of the concerns running rampant
throughout.
Directors Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky previously touched on
the work of Metallica via the distinctly uncomfortable,
infuriating and rather distressing Paradise Lost series of films,
searing documentaries what concerned themselves with the hotly-
debated West Memphis Three, a group of metal fans imprisoned, and
in one case sentenced to death, for the murder of three children.
The films acted as anchors for the resultant howls of protest,
mainly focused on the shockingly flimsy evidence produced for to
convict the three youngsters. As the tagline stated; “It's
frightening to think they did it. It's terrifying to think they
didn't.”
Berlinger, alas, also created the shockingly awful Book Of
Shadows – Blair Witch 2, a commendable but gut-numbingly bad
attempt to subvert the notion of the horror sequel.
So, then, we can probably assume that The Metallicas saw the
Paradise Lost films, and most likely never cast an eye in the
direction of Book Of Shadows.
Some Kind Of Monster is, The Duke feels compelled to relate, a
marvellous work. Tender, brave, compassionate, compulsive, it’s
hard to find a fault anywhere in the damn thing.
Much of the action takes place in, of all places, a load of the
“therapy-sessions”, where the group vent any number of
frustrations with the help of Phil Towle, therapist to all sorts
of sports teams and what not, these bunches of the ego what have
to find a way for to work with one another on account of the
green involved.
Jason Newstead, bassist for Metallica since Cliff Burton was
killed in the late eighties, has just walked, and it’s probably
fair to say that the remaining three are a tad worried that
anyone else might take to the road.
These therapy sessions initially seem like something of an
inconvenience for all involved, but soon mutate, evolving into a
bout of fuck-flinging theatrics, drummer Lars Ulrich screaming
into the face of a comically nonplussed James Hetfield, the ever-
amusing frontman.
Lars Ulrich, in fact, emerges as something of a selfish shit, if
an understandable one. His whining tantrums seem all the
misguided in China when the focus of the abuse is Hetfield,
himself entering a years worth of rehab during the film on
account of the alcoholism nurtured since back when Metallica
where still intending to call their debut record Metal Up Your
Ass.
It’s easy to see Ulrich’s point, his frustration at the noon-till-
four recording times imposed by Hetfield’s recovery, but it’s
also easy to see him as a fella exhibiting a baffling lack of
compassion or thought for anything but the commercial future of
the band.
As someone who has been, and still is, recovering from the old
“Ale-ism”, though, I find myself exhibiting some kind of deep
admiration for Hetfield, his steadfast refusal to allow these
ongoing tensions and bickerings to nudge him off that old wagon
what is ever so mythologized.
Guitarist Kirk Hammet emerges as a highly-sensitive, soft-spoken
mediator, retreating from the searing testosterone for to wander
around his horse-ranch.
The film approaches and exploits a voyeuristic intensity that at
times renders much of the action deeply uncomfortable. Ulrich’s
meeting with one-time member Dave Mustaine, now frontman for
multi-million selling upstarts Megadeth, is particularly near-the-
knuckle. It’s also rather surprising to discover that despite the
stratospheric success of his own outfit, Mustaine is constantly
battling with his perceived standing as “Second-Best”.
At times these adolescent episodes are all the amusing in the
world, these fully-grown multimillionaires exhibiting the
emotional maturity of particularly maladjusted eight-year-olds,
but often the rawness of it all invites little but shock, or
stunned empathy.
For a band so vigilant in the flaunting of their own machismo,
Some Kind Of Monster is a remarkably risky prospect. It’s fine
for, say, Jonathan Davis of KoRn to rant and rave for the
duration of his first-person diatribes against bullies, parents,
the world, but even when Metallica voiced similar concerns in the
likes of Fade To Black, a particularly bleak offering from their
second record, it still seemed like a fantasy, an example of the
band telling a story that had little relation to their own
existence.
Here, as Ulrich seems to weep momentarily during that meeting
with Mustaine, as Hetfield yacks in a matter-of-fact manner about
his feelings and so on, as the whole lot muse on the loss of
Cliff Burton, a wound what is obviously still far-from-healed,
the façade seems to exist within the bravado, rather than the
introspective narratives.
Anyone expecting Metallica to dish out a flick arriving on the
friendly side of two hours has obviously never approached the
four-hour opus A Year And A Half In The Life Of Metallica. What’s
rather surprising, however, is that even at two-and-a-half hours,
Some Kind Of Monster never drags, never appears anything less
than riveting, from the one-on-one conversations dotted
throughout to the sight of Ulrich and Hammet getting all
depressed on account of the gig they go to, a performance by
Newstead’s post-Metallica band Echobrain, turns out to be rather
good, actually.
I find the music of Metallica to be especially wonderful for the
most part, excepting the occasional indulgences of the Load and
Re-Load shenanigans. I feel fairly confident, though, that this
had precious little to do with my enjoyment of this flick. It’s
quite simply a wonderful, candid, revealing and overall sublimely
entertaining slice of the rock-n-roll filmic excursions.
Highly recommended, is what The Duke would like to announce.
Thanks folks.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
