Michael Lindsay-Hogg
Let It Be

In January 1969, unbeknownst to millions of fans around the world, the Beatles were quickly heading towards the precipice. Too many internal tensions, too many jealousies and fights, too many egos and grandiosity had irreparably undermined the most famous pop band the world had known up to that point (and perhaps still to this day).

Just a few weeks prior, the long and exhausting sessions for the "White Album" had ended, during which, besides the music (and what music!), neuroses and misunderstandings had prevailed, to the point where Ringo Starr in the midst of it all had said goodbye to everyone, only to, after much pleading especially from his friend George Harrison, withdraw his resignation and return. What might have seemed at the time like an inconsequential incident actually revealed that something must have broken, that the cement holding the group together was crumbling, if even the most humble of the Fab Four, Ringo Starr, decided to throw in the towel. Among other things, the two leaders and former friends, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, barely spoke to each other, the former madly in love with Yoko Ono (whose presence did little to calm the waters, quite the opposite) and now light-years away from the group's pop, the latter an enthusiastic supporter of any idea that could breathe new life into the band, often without realizing he was overstepping and alienating his companions.

It was McCartney who proposed and once again dragged the other members, who were actually quite reluctant in the face of yet another one of Paul's whims, towards the idea of a film. It wouldn’t have been the first movie involving the Beatles, and only a few weeks had passed since the animated film Yellow Submarine debuted in theaters, which like its predecessor (featuring live-action protagonists) Magical Mystery Tour had been met with some eye-rolling. But the craziest part of the project was the content the film was supposed to have: documenting the Beatles as they played, composed, and recorded in the studio. A sort of live documentary capturing the group's creative process. Needless to say, this idea, in order to work, would have required a cohesive group willing to play in front of cameras without a script, since everything depended (or should have depended) on the spontaneity and immediacy of personal and musical interactions; cohesion that certainly couldn't be associated with the Beatles in early 1969. Nonetheless, Paul convinced the others to embark on the adventure and contacted the young American director Michael Lindsay-Hogg, a child of the arts and popular director of music programs like Ready Steady Go!, before whose cameras much of the British Invasion had passed, and who had recently directed a never-broadcast television special of the friends/rivals Rolling Stones, the Rock'n'Roll Circus, and who perhaps for this reason also appeared to be the most suitable person for such an operation.

On January 2, 1969, at the Twickenham Studios in London, the Beatles gathered for the first time for filming. And immediately the difficulties began. First of all, except for Paul, who had already shown signs of unabashed narcissism in the Magical Mystery Tour, and Ringo, who perhaps was the one among the four the least concerned (and not coincidentally he dedicated himself to cinema with some success for a while), it was clear that the idea of playing with a crew underfoot and cameras always in their face only exponentially increased the nervousness and tension; secondly, they had just finished the sessions for an album and new material was scarce, let alone quality material (considering from this point the Beatles obviously couldn't and shouldn't allow themselves to look bad), and composing new pieces in those rather stifling conditions was certainly not the best solution. It's no coincidence that the film shows the group repeatedly trying "Don't Let Me Down", "Maxwell's Silver Hammer", "Two Of Us" and "I've Got A Feeling" (in addition to a series of old hits, both theirs and covers dating back to the pioneering days in Hamburg) without much conviction, displaying forced smiles and the clear impression of being there more out of duty than conviction.

Inevitably, after a few days the situation deteriorated. In the film, McCartney clearly begins to show, as if he were actually playing a scripted role, all his disdain in wanting to appear as the driving force of the band, making heavy comments about the way his companions were playing, particularly with Harrison, who in the only moment of real tension captured in the film, responds to Paul's reproaches "well, I’ll play what you want, or if you prefer, I won’t play at all". In another moment, Paul seems to be almost delivering a Sunday sermon to John, urging him to have more faith in the group's potential, receiving, in return, an eloquent silence. To be honest, more than playing, Lennon gives the impression of being far more interested in being with Yoko, ever-present and always adoring the soon-to-be husband, whatever he does or says. Instead of Paul's frequent jokes, his companions’ reactions to them sound far more comical, doing nothing to hide the fact that they are laughing more out of necessity than anything else. It's no wonder then that after about ten days, George, in perfect Ringo-style, tells everyone to go to hell. Filming halted, followed by another ten days of negotiations to bring him back, negotiations that resulted in him being allowed to bring his friend Billy Preston, a famous African-American session man responsible for the organ parts of so many legendary recordings of those years, along with the guarantee to expedite the studio work as much as possible.

And here we come to the famous finale: the last Beatles concert. McCartney's last brilliant idea was to think of ending the film with a performance. Given that organizing a Beatles concert on short notice was no small feat, and that the main problem was finding the right venue (Lennon with his usual spirit suggested playing in Africa, or why not, in an asylum!), the truly brilliant idea devised was to play on the rooftop of the Apple recording studios: after some rehearsals (obviously filmed) inside, where Paul seems more dressed for a funeral with his black jacket than for a concert, the group goes up to their last stage, almost a scaffold, in front of an impromptu audience of people on a lunch break peeking from the windows across or climbing onto rooftops (if they do it, why can’t we? they must have wondered), while the street is literally invaded by fans and ordinary people caught by surprise at hearing the Beatles playing at full volume from the rooftop, with some smiles and some understandable annoyance from the diligent London police officers. It all ends up looking like a real funeral rite, a final, certainly not wanted nor imagined, last farewell, from a public to whom the Beatles’ music truly changed their lives, to four now mature boys who seem to have realized themselves that they no longer believe in their union, so often and too much mythologized but in reality as ephemeral as all human things. What isn't ephemeral, the film seems to tell us, is only their music, which nothing and no one can erase. Let it be.