BY DUANE PESICE *using suave announcery voice"-- A Robert Stigwood Production, in association with Dee Anthony b Band (1978) Directed by Michael Schultz Written by Henry Edwards Misusing the talents of Peter Frampton, The Bee Gees, Aerosmith, Alice Cooper, and others I saw this film first-run in the theater, along with several other musically-inclined friends. We were unanimous at that point in damning this venture, not with faint praise, but with no praise whatsoever. Other than the occasional AOR airing of Aerosmith’s sloppy take on “Come Together”, I have had scant opportunity to ever think of this adventure in film again. This was an opportunity to do so that I undertook with an awful lot of trepidation, having managed to bury all but vague memories of the thing. I watched this film five times. My eyes! My ears! It actually might have been decent, for reasons which I will discuss below. But it wasn’t. I’m an original Beatles fan. I was enthralled by them when I was three and they were on Ed Sullivan’s show, and that has never changed. We’re gonna do a reaction-shot thing here, complied from notes taken during the five viewings. It starts with a voiceover by George Burns during the opening credits, which unreel like they’re supposed to be a WW2 take on Monty Python or Richard Lester, but Burns isn’t given Anthony remotely funny or sharp to recite and the Marching Band coming through the tanks is just silly instead of surrealistic as there’s absolutely no setup. Might as well have played “La Marseillaise” for all that was worth. Subsequent attempts to make the narrative work by using short scenes of the band getting people to dance during the 20s and 30s just compounds the silliness, and it’s a sad sort of silliness, tired instead of whimsical. Peter Frampton comes in wearing white bib overalls as Billy, and the brothers Gibb play the band in an attempt to cash in on Stigwood’s major acts, and they run through a weary cover of the opening number to the Beatles’ seminal disc and “With a little help from my Friends”. Frampton sings like he’s laughing at himself and the participants mug for the cameras. Burns continues to narrate until he Milli Vanillis a bad version of “Fixing a Hole”…then the band break into a singularly bad rendition of “Getting Better”, wherein we are not surprised to find that Frampton doesn’t really have the voice to be the front man for this enterprise, though the Bee Gees do just fine harmonizing. Peter’s very pretty, though, and this leads into the weird Aliens-are-coming-to-take-our-money subplot and some weird frames of what I guess are supposed to be RSO executives making superstars out of Our Boys, who are still wearing smalltown rural clothing ™. Apple must have been desperate for money. Sandy Farina sings “Here Comes the Sun” like Maureen McGovern the morning after a bender as the boys board a hot-air balloon for Hollywood and fame. The symbolism is inescapable and apparently wielded by Maxwell in lieu of a silver hammer. There are hints of a self-deprecating sense of humor here, but just hints…and the inserts from Abbey Road don’t really help things very much, just a dumb little sexual subplot with no real life to it, just suggestive imagery. The silver Buick limo is cool though. The Beatles knew how to ‘sell’ their music. Their performances were expert and propulsive and filled with urgency. This film is quite the opposite. Trying to peddle the sleazoid stuff to pre-teens and nostalgia buffs with a PG rating and mugging for the camera doesn’t work…though the faux-Caligula orgy of buffet food near the end of the ‘medley’ while the LA-style guitar solo goes on kind of works as a metaphor. But only kind of. The whole thing is telegraphed and leeringly suggestive, and the climactic moment when Billy drinks the ‘kool-aid’ and is seduced might have been more sinister if the proceedings had been less heavy-handed…and let’s not forget that it all runs counter to the actual spirit of the album that this mess is supposedly based on. Abbey Road’s sentiment is quite different from that espoused during the beginning of the ‘Summer of Love’. The sentiment of the movie is more like that brought out in David Bowie’s Fame -- “what you want is in the limo” is the operative concept here, painted in disco glitter. “Nowhere Man” briefly works as Barry Gibb croons the chorus and the band members remember that there are professional musicians. “Polythene Pam” succeeds similarly. Neither are great, and the urgency disappears in a winking and nodding version of “She Came I Through the Bathroom Window”. I found myself looking at the band’s instruments and coveting the vintage Thunderbird bass. Frampton essays an all-too-brief solo during the intro to the Sgt. Pepper reprise, which actually works, though it’s obvious that Maurice can’t play the bassline or never learned it and his hands are kept in darkness. Snatches of a bloodless “The Long and Winding Road” follow this almost-palatable interlude as Miss Fields misses Billy something fierce. The aliens come back in for “Mean Mr Mustard” done in a fusion-y style that actually works, by Frankie Howerd and his band, and we proceed along to the videogame arcade and segue into the ‘aliens’ doing “She’s Leaving Home”…which is actually extremely effective in-context when the natural voices come in while Ms. Fields is leaving her home to join Billy, passing garbage-strewn streets and boarding a dilapidated bus in the best sequence in the film so far – one that has some real power. Of course that promise is immediately dashed. But the music stays good. Dianne Steingard does a good job of playing Lucy as the Acid Queen while the winking and nodding and cheesy costumes carry on. By this point it’s too obvious that nobody involved cares very much, and are just going through the motions to get the thing done. I took a break to do some research. The story is that Stigwood bought the use of 29 songs, and that they were so expensive that he had to do something. He hired Edwards, who wrote a very-loosely-tied-together play around those titles. One wonders why then-current Stigwood asset Eric Clapton didn’t participate. Perhaps Stigwood didn’t have enough on him. He must have bailed the Bee Gees and Frampton out of some horrible contracts. We return for Steve Martin’s ridiculous take on Maxwell…this might have worked if the surrealism that was hinted at was actually present, as in his turn in “Little Shop of Horrors”. Instead it’s tedious, and really odd and Zappaesque when the band comes in to fight Steve and his dancing dental assistants and Billy is electrified. What I keep seeing is that this could actually have been good, if anyone involved gave a shit. Finally Alice Cooper comes on, doing ‘Because” in his ‘evil Alice’ voice, lending a great deal of menace to the overall nuttiness, taking things in a different direction. Vince doesn’t mail stuff in. He grimaces and chuckles (while basically looking like the frontman for Ghost) until his star turn is disrupted by a feedback loop and he passes out in a pie. The band takes over Mr. Mustard’s bus and finds some of their lost instruments. I wanted more Alice. This contrasts mightily with the saccharine version of ‘Strawberry Fields” that follows, milked for the schmaltz content. Ms. Fields plays out all of the female characters in the film in Billy’s dream, in little vignettes, and she Prince Charmings his ass with a hug. I wanted Blue Meanies. Instead I got a tepid rendition of ‘Mr Kite’, one of my favorite songs. At least it had Henry the Horse. “You Never Give Me Your Money” incongruously comes in after this. It features Paul Nicholas and his paramour rolling around on piles of money, and segues into Earth, Wind, and Fire doing a really good version of “Got To Get You Into My Life” in their inimitable style – which is great, but it’s from Rubber Soul, a disc that’s as far removed from Sgt. Pepper as Abbey Road in terms of sentiment and musical approach. But we’re beyond trivial concerns like artistic integrity or even conceptual continuity by now as the benefit concert begins. Ted Kiel (?) even starts making with the dance moves. Frankie Howerd does “When I’m 64” as if he’s doing a JG Wentworth commercial. Oh gawd, this sequence is bad. Where’s Passepartout when you need him? Why wasn’t Sir Richard Lester approached to do this? Aerosmith almost save the day as Tyler and the boys screech and squeal through their star turn…they’re not quite as good at being bad as Alice or even Steve Vai but they still retained shreds of credibility at this point in their career and could ape playing their instruments well as they knew how to play the tunes. 1500 words in and I still haven’t hit the fast-forward. Neither has Ms. Fields, as she is pining for the fjords. “Golden Slumbers” has morphed from a lullaby into a dirge. Might as well have gone with “Baby’s In Black”. Oh gawd. “Carry That Weight” to the pallbearers. Turn on the bubble machine. Peter Frampton really isn’t a great singer. Or actor. Terrifically nice guy – I’ve met him a couple of times in my brief journey through the dark heart of the music business in Chicago. But he’s horribly miscast. I am amusing myself imagining Steve Marriott in this part. Or David Essex, who might have been a better choice. Essex could have done “A Day in the Life” instead of Barry, whose tenor betrays no actual emotion as he sings one of the most emotional songs ever written. Pass me that doob, Donald. In a moment that would be remarkable for its synchronicity, Billy Preston comes in and saves the day, singing and playing “Get Back”, which he (of course) played on. And so it goes, ‘round in circles. He brings Strawberry Fields back to life and a cast of thousands sings “We are the World.” Oh wait, that was later. They do a Sgt. Pepper’s second reprise. David Essex is actually in this part. So are the Pointer Sisters and Sha Na Na. Roll credits please. I promise myself that I will never ever watch this again.
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