These go to eleven.

Rating: 9/10 (15 August 2016)

Film-maker Marty DeBergi has assigned himself a mission to investigate the inner lives of the rock band Spinal Tap, who he is drawn to not because of their lyrical poetry or their composition but because they can lay claim to being one of the loudest bands in Britain. Marty is played by Rob Reiner himself and is the crucial building block of his debut mockumentary. He wields his camera with sincerity, honesty and authenticity, and seems to hold the same qualities in his face, letting the inevitable mayhem of the band happen before his eyes. Reiner is a great comedic actor; he knows when to nod politely, and when to feign modest interest (almost always), and throughout the entire journey does not ever relinquish his poker face even slightly. His seriousness lends legitimacy to his capturing of the rogue band, and makes it all the more funny when they break from convention.
The genius of the film is in how little effort Marty has put to in to get any decent material for his documentary. He points the camera, offers a few probing questions, and Spinal Tap do the rest. Through the simple verite style presentation there is the suggestion of a wilder, greater life that these musicians occupy off the screen, and how lucky for Marty to be able to capture even a little insight. They are larger than life itself, and even in the mundane they pop. Some of the humour comes from Reiner simply extending the documentary's boundaries, and pretending as if this was a completely normal venture. Marty asks, very solemnly, if the current Spinal Tap drummer Mick Shrimpton is afraid of the unfortunate fate of all the previous drummers, and Mick replies in turn, with all seriousness, that it was a legitimate issue that was discussed between them, as if he was talking about a missing tom- tom. Oh, and he's in the bathtub.
Reiner also draws from another rather famous British band, in both style and content, and in a way that immediately produces contrast. A Hard Day's Night was one of the early mockumentaries that birthed an entire genre, and crafted a whole set of rules and guidelines from which concert films were to be made. They are all noticeably here, and Reiner freely exaggerates: the push-ins to the band's orgasmic expressions, the reaction shots of the (less than) ecstatic audience, the way the camera hurtles through backstage trying desperately to keep up with the mania of the crew. When Tufnel storms off in disgust after a particularly terrible show, see how we are immediately chasing after him, the frame bouncing with each step, and pausing for the full gravitas of the ugly stare-down. Who is causing the rift in Spinal Tap? None other than the Yoko Ono of their time, an earth- loving hippie who increasingly pushes her unwanted presence into the band's affairs. But Spinal Tap have been there and done that - their early, drug-fuelled hit (Listen To The) Flower People must be as flabbergasting as Lennon's I Am The Walrus.
McKean, Guest and the rest of Spinal Tap are wild in the best way, given free reign to go haywire. They tap into a very specific and familiar persona of the rock star and all the glamorous, egocentric pretensions that come along with their music, and all the drama, backlash and toxic infighting that brings about their inevitable downfall (and comeback tour). All this, as the laws dictate, must be well publicised, and Reiner observes ever so diligently. The band is pompous, fired up from their brief success and thinking that no artistic boundary is beyond them. They hastily deflect any accusations or criticisms because such things are below their level. The critics may have been right - the White Album did have nothing on its cover, but even that is not so absurd as the excessively graphic content of Smell the Glove. Their other albums have similarly humorous titles. Some are simply two phrases stuck together - Shark Sandwich, Robotic Armchair, Cerebral Badger. You get the idea.
They think themselves poets, and resort to more and more desperation in order to win back their audience. Reiner produces his funniest scenes when he points towards just how insecure and vulnerable Spinal Tap really are. When challenged on the fact that most of their fans are clueless teenage boys, they retort that it is their primal masculinity that draws the envy (and fear) of both sexes. Later, a timid Derek Smalls is caught with a tinfoil- wrapped cucumber in his pants, left standing there humiliated. The climax is the reveal of the tiny Stonehenge statue, derailed by a hastily drawn napkin diagram. Reiner doesn't stray an inch; he shows the conventional shots, the passion, the feverish crowd, the dazzling lights, and then just lowers the model and lets Spinal Tap react and fall apart. And yet they are not arrogant to the point of dislike. We chuckle as they get second billing to a puppet show, and feel a little sorry when things out of their control cripple their last ditch efforts. So when Tufnel bursts back onto the stage for the teary reunion, we laugh at the sheer absurdity of the timing of it all, but at the same time we are also cheering them on and lining up for the comeback tour.