This is very nearly scuppered by Copeland's present-day, gee-whizz narrative, which is surprisingly square and self-regarding. You can't imagine Mick or Keith, or Debbie, or Chrissie (Hynde) doing anything like it and makes the whole project totally uncool. It's like being round your mate's house and being followed by an overenthusiastic American dad, you keep hoping he'll disappear so you can raid the fridge for beers and watch Chuck's new Jenna Jameson flick.
Eventually Copeland shuts up and the footage takes on a real quirky charm, the blonds larking about like moptop Beatles in negative, though you sometimes wonder if bands were always like that or if having a camera were the equivalent of larking about for a facebook picture today.
Some good music and Copeland is interesting about the bad effects of fame towards the end. It doesn't outstay its welcome at just 70 mins.
Eventually Copeland shuts up and the footage takes on a real quirky charm, the blonds larking about like moptop Beatles in negative, though you sometimes wonder if bands were always like that or if having a camera were the equivalent of larking about for a facebook picture today.
Some good music and Copeland is interesting about the bad effects of fame towards the end. It doesn't outstay its welcome at just 70 mins.