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.