And The Band Played On...
Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars: The Motion Picture
Dir: D.A. Pennebaker
1973
Concert films have a difficult task: they attempt to recreate the sensation of a live performance, something that in itself can inspire group transcendence or simply become a huge debacle. It's analogous to the adaptation of a novel to the screen; the experience will never exactly translate correctly, but may bring new perspectives or elements to light. Of course, sometimes it can just be crap viewing.
Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars: The Motion Picture has a rougher path than most; as the final performance of David Bowie in his spaceman-rocker alter ego at the end of a world tour, it attempts to document what has since become a legendary turning point for one of the most influential of pop musicians. As though that weren't enough, D.A. Pennebaker, hot off his monumental Bob Dylan documentary film Dont Look Back and 1968's {Monterey Pop}, must have been eager to continue his jaunt through rock royalty. And just to add a little something extra, there was the infamous decadence and flamboyance of the early Bowie shows: the simulated fellatio, the costume changes, the risqué subject matter. So how does it stack up?
Unevenly, in all fairness. Pennebaker may have been an obvious choice at the time, but his jerky, rapid-cut editing and grainy footage have not aged as well with Ziggy as with Bobby. The camera rarely stays still, either drifting across the stage or cutting to random perspectives; at one bewildering moment, there is a lengthy close up of the emaciated singer's bare thigh. Perhaps it was an attempt to establish a realistic audience stand-in for the cinema, but the technique falls on its own sword. Perhaps we could believe that we crane our necks along with the lens to follow Bowie, but not that we could suddenly jump further back into the crowd and then to the fore and then to between his legs. Much as we might like to.
More egregious is the use of color and light; while not all of the artistic decisions can be heaped on the filmmaker's shoulders, the darkness that enshrouds the entire show is unbefitting of such a garish spectacle. Bowie himself is almost always under a warm orange light, while the rest of the stage is completely black; sometimes nothing can be seen at all, only vague motions in the dark. A key moment has guitarist Mick Ronson (a glam legend in his own right) in a strange kind of guitar duel, mid-solo tumbling and miming violence with instruments, but with whom? In all the murk, it's impossible to see anything but occasional sequins. Bassist Trevor Bolder? Jeff Beck? It could be anyone.
While Ziggy Stardust is undoubtedly a case of a square peg and a round hole, it's not accurate to call it a failure. The music is nothing short of astounding; Bowie's voice runs between strained and histrionic, in the best possible ways. The feral charisma that he exudes even while miming an invisible wall onstage (yes, miming) is undeniable. The backstage interludes for costume changes display him as soft-spoken and quietly humorous, contrasted with the leering archness that never quite seems a pose. Ronson himself nearly queens it up over his main man for most of the film, looking like a blond and angelic Alice Cooper; in addition, his Neolithic solos have never been acknowledged enough as an influence on shoegaze and drone metal. The frequent audience shots are also fascinating. There seems to be a nearly sexual energy throughout the entire venue, young girls and boys nearly orgasming through the thick, Aladdin Sane makeup.
By the time the last, thrilling rendition of "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" rolls around and the man (alien?) himself implores the crowd to "give me your hands!," it's been a mixed bag. I felt like I was watching history, but not through the right eyes. At least it still depicts Bowie as the only man who could make an orange mullet cool.
Inevitable Rock Star Wankery
Surprisingly little. His first wife, Angela Bowie, shows up briefly to cackle on about Rolls Royces stretched around the block, but Bowie himself is largely silent. Pennebaker at least understood that half of the Stardust persona was in its dreadful ambiguity. Aside from that, most of the worship comes from the fan shots, not the star of the show himself. But hey, look, isn't that Ringo Starr in the dressing room?
by Nathan Kamal