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Rating: Watched last night on the Netflix circuit, which produced this so-called biopic about the Mötley Crüe, the movie The Dirt couldn't help but evoke the myth of Persephone for me.
We know that Persephone was the beloved and oh-so-cool daughter of Demeter, kidnapped by Hades to become his consort, and finally freed by order of Zeus himself, who sent Hermes to the underworld. Hades seemed to bow to Zeus's will, but before his bride ascended Hermes' chariot, he made her eat a pomegranate seed, casting a spell that would prevent her from remaining forever in the realm of light. Understandably, eating was forbidden in Hades' realm, if only out of respect for the departed. Since Persephone ate the pomegranate seed in the realm of the dead, Zeus decreed that she would return there every year for an extended period. Thus, Demeter declared that during the six months Persephone was in the underworld, the world would grow cold and nature would fall asleep, giving rise to autumn and winter, while during the remaining six months the earth would bloom again, giving rise to spring and summer. But the story of the seasons is another matter that has nothing to do with Mötley Crüe, being rockers undoubtedly good for all seasons. What is relevant is Persephone's weakness in accepting the pomegranate seed, compromising her salvation, reducing it to a temporary redemption.
Exactly what happened to the four members of the band, or rather the gang (as they call themselves at the beginning of the film) of Mötley Crüe. In the 1980s, they got into all sorts of trouble, consuming an abundance of pomegranate seeds and other disturbing fruits, but after hitting rock bottom, they redeemed themselves, promising never to chew seeds or kernels again, not even a cashew (indeed, in '89, they produced Dr Feelgood, perhaps their best album). But in the end, they fall back, not missing out on a tiny pomegranate seed, and thus they return to pendling between hell and paradise (hey, I already know someone will object as to which one is the real hell…).
This is, in my opinion, one of the weak points in the film's construction, because in the second part, after detailing the descent into the infernos of the 80s with great detail, they want to make room for the redemption story, in the series "wow, it’s a miracle we survived, but perhaps it was meant to be, so we're getting back together, being good, and resuming our music, showing the world who’s boss." And here the donkey, or rather donkeys, stumble.
But let's start from the beginning.
The first scene of the film immediately dives into the heat of the action. It's 1981, and the four bad boys of the newly formed band hang out at the Whisky a go go in the City of Angels, then move to their mansion, with the door nailed shut to prevent police raids. Here, each of the four performs a little act, just to show the viewers who they are: Vince Neil screws a demigoddess in the toilet while her boyfriend knocks on the door "loveee are you there?," Tommy Lee engages in a fellatio with a somewhat rough nymph, making her fountain squirting, Nikki Sixx sets fire to a sleeve of his jacket, and Mick Mars lies on a bed catatonically staring at the ceiling. Showers of pomegranates and all four proudly proclaim that they are a gang, not just a band.
The filming style is that of a music video, fast-paced rhythm, quick-cut scenes, and some slow motion, while for the narration, they use the intradiegetic style, with our heroes each taking a turn to tell their own story in the usual flashback method. It starts with Nikki Sixx, then, in rotation, each of the other three takes the role of narrator. And each time, the tone of the story changes depending on the character and how they present themselves.
I was saying, Frank Feranna introduces himself, who will later become Nikki Sixx, wonderfully embodying a champion of moral devastation. The father is just a name who doesn’t want to be disturbed when he turns into a voice on the other end of the phone. The mother changes partners like kleenex, many with a tendency to beat him up. To get out of it, he has to resort to self-harm, cutting his arm and calling the police accusing his mother of assault. All this serves to justify his later choices and lifestyle devoted to pomegranates, as well as the melons of the maidens visited. He has an inner void to fill and wounds to heal, the boy, it’s not his fault if he does certain things.
The guitarist Mick Mars, real name Robert Alan Deal, suffering from ankylosing spondylitis, keeps to himself the role of the talking cricket from Collodi’s memory, perhaps because among the quartet he has always been the one most typically distant from excesses, apart from the appropriated socializing with the bottlenecks.
The way the drummer Tommy Lee presents himself is hilarious, as a good mama's boy, driven by sincere feelings for girls he falls in love with with the sole purpose of making them his wife and mother of his future twelve children. The funny thing is that his old-fashioned nerd parents are absolutely convinced of it.
The singer Vince Neil is the one on whom destiny seems to rage like nemesis. First, in 1984, driving his supercar while drunken, he crashes causing the death of Razzle, the drummer of Hanoi Rocks, who was traveling with him. Razzle's death leads his family and Hanoi Rocks to sue him, and Neil is sentenced to a month in jail, serving only 19 days after paying a bail. Then the tragedy of his daughter Skylar's death, in 1995, due to stomach cancer.
Meanwhile, Vince had been kicked out of the group as his mates accused him of lack of commitment and an allergy to team working. Incredibile dictu.
The setting of the scenes, surprise, is almost entirely indoors. Never a panoramic view, except on breasts and butts (I admit, chosen with admirable perfectionism), nada panning shots of exteriors, except perhaps for the pool scene which I'll mention shortly. On the one hand, the production saves money, and the director can brag saying he wanted to emphasize the claustrophobic sense of a life oppressed by excesses, and on the other hand, they remain consistent with a lifestyle based on let's screw and do drugs like there's no tomorrow and to hell with the rest of the world. Thus, the scenes continuously shift from homes turned into brothels to brothels turned into homes, from lapdance stages to concert stages, from dressing rooms with sucking groupies to parties with sips, from private jet cabins to recording booths. This last aspect, of the moments dedicated to music, is also reduced to a minimum.
But really, a rookie might ask, they produce a biopic about a famous rock group and don't include their music? Well, of course, I would answer, because this is not a film about four musicians and what they do when not playing. This is a film about four young guys from L.A. who in the 80s find more money than they can spend, trying in every way, but failing because they are occasionally distracted by having to play and do concerts. The music, in this film (I emphasize this because I'm not here to give a judgment on either Mötley Crüe or their music), plays the part of a modest cameo, right at the beginning of the film, when the band is forming, a little bit here and there, and a sprinkle towards the finale. And that's it.
Everything is narrated with a fast pace and a wealth of detail about the excesses our heroes indulge in. The climax scene is undoubtedly the one where they are poolside during a break on the tour supporting Ozzy Osbourne. A relaxed atmosphere of luxury hotel, American tourists sunbathing next to our beached heroes on loungers, and here comes Ozzy to animate these four baboons, et voilà, he grabs the straw in Nikki's glass, sticks it up his nostril, spots a procession of ants along the tiles kneeling next to it and cheerfully snorts them up. Then he pulls down his shorts and urinates on the same tile, bar service is slow, and it's hot, so he licks his own urine to cool off. Promptly imitated by disciple Nikki. Applause from the sunbath audience.
For the strong-hearted is also the succession of vein needle scenes of our hero Nikki. Until the final heroin overdose with a last-minute rescue from a needle stuck in the heart muscle.
Thus comes the moment of the return from hell. Nikki understands he must turn things around and promises to be good, no more zealous waitresses offering shiny trays with crushed shit already laid out in lines. And his new healthy mantra must also be received by his snack buddies. Indeed, a scene follows where the same waitresses arrive with the same trays, but this time filled with fruit and energy drinks. Slightly ridiculous. And a phase of short duration, like Persephone's summer. Even so, Nikki would declare in an interview:
I learned that drugs are like band-aids, and band-aids don’t work. You have to clean the wound. I dealt with all this along with fame and success. At some moments in my life, I could have made better decisions.
And there they are, our heroes, finally reconciled, towards the end of the 90s, reuniting in the pub where Vince Neil drowns the pain of his daughter's death. Let’s get along, put a stone over past disputes, and start again from where we left off, as the happy ending draws near.
Speaking of happy end, here the intervention of Netflix becomes significant, increasingly in the role of all-powerful Hollywood Major. The director of “The Dirt,” Jeff Tremaine, certainly would have accepted without question what must have been a production diktat. Of the series do whatever the hell you want in the first part, but then shove in the happy ending, because after all, these four jerks stayed alive, and at least this merit we must recognize. The voice of Netflix the master here must have echoed imperiously. We are Americans, uncle diver, and we Americans need the happy ending. The happy ending is our right, forever, our viewers demand it!!!. And it’s obviously consistent with the redemption message. The happy end not only reassures but also allows the story to close definitively. After the happy end, nothing more can happen because happy people have nothing more to say. They just enjoy it. Like our four heroes who finally happily embrace and run to the stage, ready for a new performance. Holy America.
But after all these ramblings, my cousin would ask me, what rating do you give this stupid movie? How many balls? Well, I even enjoyed the first part, overlooking some inconsistencies and especially the mediocrity of the actors, likely chosen purely for a possible resemblance to the real Mötley Crüe. And I said it all. Then the pace slows, and the few remaining neurons revive, begin to think about the above, and I find it hard to give it two balls.
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