The documentary film Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster is an example of a not so good piece of art about a subject that is not so good. Don't get me wrong, I'm a Metallica fan, and not one of those morons who refuse to grow up and believe their early thrash songs that sound all alike are somehow artistically superior to their later songs with melody and lyrics with a little more depth. It's just that while the filmmakers and band members hoped to do a film of 'great depth', which the commentary tracks harp on, the truth is that the members of the band are unwittingly close to the Spinal Tap territory inherent in any such venture. Basically, after bassist Jason Newsted left the band in 2001, over artistic differences, lead singer James Hetfield and drummer Lars Ulrich warred for control over the band's future, while lead guitarist Kirk Hammett pretty much sat on the sidelines. Eventually, the band hired a $40,000 a month counselor named Phil Towle, not even a real shrink, to tell them things that any twelve year old could figure out.
Hetfield is an addictive sort, whose terminal machismo landed him in rehab, after doing a Ted Nugent impression, by going to kill bears in Siberia, then bleating over missing his son's first birthday, Ulrich is an artistic poseur, truly befuddled at the supposed 'meaning' of gold trim in terrible Basquiat paintings, which he later sells off for several million dollars, and asking such probing queries as 'Where does art begin? Where does it end?', and Hammett simply doesn't know how to cope with either, in between vacuously staring in camera and declaring himself egoless,. Add in do-nothing producer Bob Rock, for what would eventually become their St. Anger CD, and the makings for a great comic film are there, in spades .
Hetfield is an addictive sort, whose terminal machismo landed him in rehab, after doing a Ted Nugent impression, by going to kill bears in Siberia, then bleating over missing his son's first birthday, Ulrich is an artistic poseur, truly befuddled at the supposed 'meaning' of gold trim in terrible Basquiat paintings, which he later sells off for several million dollars, and asking such probing queries as 'Where does art begin? Where does it end?', and Hammett simply doesn't know how to cope with either, in between vacuously staring in camera and declaring himself egoless,. Add in do-nothing producer Bob Rock, for what would eventually become their St. Anger CD, and the makings for a great comic film are there, in spades .