The songs, performances, and archival clips in Bruce Springsteen’s new Hulu documentary will satisfy most fans of the E Street Band. Primarily a concert film, it righteously delivers classics, recent tunes, and up-close views of the players. But the producers made two major mistakes, starting with the film’s name: Road Diary: Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.
Merriam-Webster’s defines a diary as a “daily record,” but doesn’t the term also imply a certain sense of intimacy? I expected a personal look at the band’s 2023/2024 tours: hotels, buses, dressing rooms. Yes, there are a few short segments on their initial rehearsals, but they’re mostly centered on the activity on the stage, not off. At no time do we get to see the cast of characters without their masks. Bruce has a built-in audience; the producers didn’t need to pick a misleading name. It’s disappointing because Springsteen’s brand has always been based on his down-to-earth honesty. Unfortunately, there’s no definition of “diary” that fits this film.
It’s as if these working-class champions didn’t want us to see the privileged lifestyle they enjoy on their journeys from town to town. But who would’ve begrudged them their fancy suites, catered meals, or private planes? If they don’t deserve them, who does? The problem is, instead of a behind-the-curtain perspective on what makes them tick, their true thoughts and feelings, and their emotional lows and peaks, we get song snippets from unknown cities in a collage that lacks context, without any references to locations or dates. Can you imagine a written diary without a mention of time and place?
That brings us to the second major mistake. In a half-hearted attempt to provide insight, we’re stuck with a monotone narration by—of all people—Bruce’s longtime manager and former producer, Jon Landau. His comments come across as a mundane attempt to tie together footage lacking cohesion or a unifying theme. The former Rolling Stone writer is a music industry legend with an unprecedented chameleonic career, but he doesn’t possess the on-screen magic necessary to pull together this uneven piece.
Overall, this concert documentary entertains. It’s a fine use of 99 minutes. It’s fun to feel the band-of-brothers’ love, revisit footage of its lost members, and rock out to snippets of great songs. Just don’t expect any private conversations or revelatory peeks into life on the road or the pleasures and pitfalls of luxury traveling.
On its surface, the Netflix documentary Norman’s Rare Guitars looks like a study of a successful store in the San Fernando Valley. But over the course of a brisk hour and a half, we discover the true rarity is Norman Harris himself, not his inventory. The film is also an homage to SoCal as the home of realized dreams.
The bio-doc opens with actors Jeff Daniels and Kiefer Sutherland extolling the virtues of the respected vendor of exquisite axes, joined by industry titans Dave Grohl, Taylor Hawkins, and Post Malone. It’s followed by testimonials from more stars—George Harrison, Bob Dylan, and Tom Petty—and private-stock in-store photos.
Just when you think it’s going to sink into (yawn) technical talk about brands and equipment, it hits you with a health calamity: Norm gets diagnosed with cancer and heart disease, which he apparently found out about during the picture’s filming. The crisis isn’t overplayed, however, or employed as a device for sympathy. Instead, it forms an organic emotional framework that lends perspective and meaning and provides a jumping off point to plunge into Norm’s past.
The director, Devin J. Dilmore, goes on to paint a portrait that’s compelling. Not of a retailer but of an extraordinary human heart and brain, as much a product of the times as the valuable wood he purveys. Overall, the flick operates as a time capsule, distinguishing itself as a fine piece of storytelling. Norm’s daughter, Sarah Edwards, served as a producer and appears in interviews on screen, along with Norm’s wife.
We trace Norm’s steps to LA from Miami. We learn that in south Florida, he gigged frequently as a professional musician. One of his bands was managed by Little Richard and another opened for Cream. We view home movies and watch him recall his inadvertent entry into guitar selling from his three-bedroom apartment in the valley. In addition to merchandise, Norm’s got tons of tales in his inventory. Every picture may tell a story, but every guitar does too. For example, Norm provided the instruments used on scores of albums, in cinema, and on TV, even for famous concerts—such as the Band’s and Martin Scorsese’s The Last Waltz.
The documentary comes across as honest and smooth, warts and all. The film freely admits Norm was an absent father, for which he harbors regrets, and that he spent too much time as high as a palm tree, hooked on weed. But he gave his infectious energy to establish a creative community and become the go-to guy for tools of the trade for Dylan, Petty, Jackson Browne and Joni Mitchell, to name a few. Aging rockers chime in—Robbie Robertson, Richie Sambora, Slash, the Heartbreaker’s Mike Campbell—and so do relative youngsters like Joe Bonamassa. The electric guitar scoring gets pleasantly punctuated by sessions inside Norm’s store, where lesser known musicians hammer out riffs that fill in the blanks seamlessly. Norm proves to be a stand-up guy who used his love of music to pioneer the vintage guitar industry.
The documentary stays entertaining because the filmmakers made sure the story wasn’t merely for gearheads or techies. Yes, it’s about Norm’s leading role and sterling reputation in the industry, but it also highlights his long-standing work with the Midnight Mission and other charities. We’re left with the knowledge that he survived his health scare, has returned to work, and would like to pass the shop along to another generation who will follow in his fingerprints. He knows he’s no kid—he’s in his late seventies—and would like to find someone to continue his tradition of getting an exceptional piece of wood into the perfect player’s hands. This skillful film can only move that process forward while it seals his legacy as a brave trailblazer in LA’s proud history as the land of unlimited opportunity.
Music lovers owe a debt of gratitude to Ronnie Wood. His sense of humor, sincerity, and warmth singlehandedly saved the Rolling Stones. His technical abilities don’t approach those of former Stones lead guitarist Mick Taylor, but Ronnie transcended those limitations with soulful, perfectly timed licks. Casual fans may not notice Wood locking down a Rolling Stones groove better than anyone not named Keith, but they see his infectious playfulness kicking the Stones’ engine into high gear. Those assets, however, take a backseat to Ronnie’s greatest contribution: acting as a buffer between Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.
Ronnie Wood’s career trajectory, from his early days with Rod Stewart and Jeff Beck to the Faces and then the Stones, bounced between highs and lows that could inspire a major motion picture, let alone a documentary. He interacted with most of the seminal figures in rock-and-roll history, took part in legendary jams, and kept audiences charmed with his magnetic personality. Yet that incandescent star goes dark in the bore fest packaged as Ronnie Wood: Somebody Up There Likes Me, now available to stream in the United States.
In the first scenes, and scattered throughout, we see Wood, an accomplished painter, applying brush strokes to canvas. Unfortunately, this work of art never takes shape. The incomplete portrait stands as the perfect metaphor for this movie. It lacks cohesion, drama, or anything resembling a story. It turns a charismatic man into a dullard—quite a feat.
This documentary should have been spellbinding. In original interviews, it features Jagger, Richards, late drummer Charlie Watts, and Rod Stewart. Wood’s story of drug abuse and late-in-life sobriety could’ve served as high-level entertainment and a source of strength for many. But director Mike Figgis took the easy way out. Instead of attempting to reveal insights into a talented man’s extraordinary life, we get a dry interview with Wood conducted by—of all people—the director.
Worse, the movie is interspersed with the weakest elements of an otherwise influential musician—his harmonica playing and singing—spliced between random clips failing to connect dots or shed light. With such a rich surplus of raw material, the only conclusion the viewer can draw is that the filmmakers got lazy. They didn’t spring for a script, tie together seventy minutes of loose ends, or go out of their way to create a historical record of a captivating time. Instead of a riveting tale about the crazy evolution of an adolescent genre, intimate reflections on the life and loves of a legend, or a hilarious recounting of insane escapades with the immortals with whom Ronnie hung, Figgis delivered a mishmash of meandering filler.
An aimless ramble with no direction home may work for the decadent lifestyle of an itinerant Rolling Stone. But it makes for one monotonous, motionless picture. Somebody Up There needs a heap of help—down here.