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Mayor of the Sunset
Strip
review by
Elias Savada, 11 June 2004
My last encounter with George
Hickenlooper was his excursion into an ill-fated fictional arena. ("The
Man From Elysian Fields is a cold, bliss-less work that groans
along thinking itself some important comment on how life throws us
some beguiling curves.") George, who takes his criticism like a
saint, sent me a single sentence email "I'm sorry you didn't like my
picture." As George is the one of less than a handful of filmmakers
(let alone my readers) who ever responded personally to me, I
emailed him back a promising "Maybe next time."
Well, next time
is here, and the director-writer is back in exemplary documentary
mode (Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker's Apocalypse) with an
entertaining look at one of La-La-Land's most unusual figures, an
increasingly sad personality heretofore unknown to the likes of
cultural (and especially east coast) music nomads such as myself,
but probably just as unfamiliar to many other, more enlightened
folk, particularly those not residing in what I like to call the
Other Planet, but which is more commonly called Los Angeles.
Despite it's
title implications, The Mayor of Sunset Strip is not about a
local politico, although the life of pop star impresario Rodney
Bingenheimer, as explored in this 96-minute retrospective covers a
waifish man-child up the alternative music ladder to where he is
today—a fifty-something on the verge of being cast-off in a society
that, like too many television executives, is concerned about
demographics, of appealing to that 18-24 (i.e, the kids with the
money) market.
Rodney is the man
who would promote a thousand (well, maybe a few less) unknown punk
rock bands into superstar status. He's unselfishly furthered other
now-mainstream attractions that, yes, I do recognize. Damn it, I
have their music on my iPod, too. As the Prince of Pop atop a
20-year reign as a KROQ radio personality, Rodney's slim frame and
small stature belie a bulging rolodex that reads like a who's who of
rockdom. He knows "them" all, the folks who have adorned countless
covers of Rolling Stone, and then, he knows some more. He
introduced America, or made it really, really want to listen to such
luminaries as David Bowie, Blondie, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols,
Van Halen, The Go-Go's, Joan Jett, Dramarama, No Doubt, Coldplay,
and Oasis. My affinity for listening to all-news radio had me miss
out, until now, an American classic, a top-tier DJ who has launched
many a musical battleship.
Hickenlooper says
he caught first notice of his film's subject when he turned on a
radio late one night and heard a unique, high-pitched, child-like
voice unlike other standard-issue baritone announcers. Personally, I
think he realized that he and Rodney both had the same number of
letters in their names. Karma.
The movie follows
the radio wonder about town and fills in choice historical tidbits.
Child of a failed marriage, tossed out in the streets as a teenager,
but still a child devoted to his sailor dad and shapely, waitress
mom. We see rock concert footage of Rodney introducing a main
attraction, of him schmoozing with Nancy Sinatra (who considers him
a "sweet boy"), of home movies of him growing up in Mountain View,
and driving around in an aging Nova. We share a pack rat's personal
mementos, walls of memorabilia and gold records, a kitchen cluttered
with empty Coca-Cola bottles, his mother's ashes nearby. We turn the
pages of his family photo albums, meet his famous friends and his
childhood acquaintances. We cringe at his frugal lifestyle (his
favorite restaurant isn't Spago, which opened just about the same
time Rodney took to the airwaves, but Denny's and IHOP), and revel
in his interesting connection to The Monkees. Seems he auditioned
when that rock quartet was being manufactured in the fall of 1965;
he missed the final cut (duh), but made some bucks as David Jones'
double. This gig also made him an unlikely groupie/babe magnet;
allowing him to get laid by association with some of the
generation's hottest acts. We watch Rodney popping up in old
television shows (arrows humorously point his mop top out),
frolicking in the love and peace 1970s, becoming a cuddly guy in the
1980s, and championing underground music for two decades. We get
filmed testimonials from Cher (Hickenlooper superimposes her name on
the bottom of the screen, just in case you don't know who she is),
David Bowie, Ray Manzarek (of The Doors), Mick Jagger, Alice Cooper,
among others.
Hickenlopper
follows Rodney around town as a friend (they've known each other
since 1997), not as someone examining something under an E!
microscope. There's a growing warmth as each frame unreels. He gets
his "star" to reflect on his life, past and present, with some
terrific anecdotes about the L.A. club scene. The director has an
occasional off-screen voice-over, as interviewer, trying to get
deeper into his subject, even to asking him point blank if he's
worried about how he'll come off in this film. Rodney, without a
lawyer's assistance, smartly provides no comment. What will be, will
be. Sure, we finally see Rodney raise an eyebrow and get hopping mad
at former Dramarama (which Rodney helped to find fame and fortune)
band member Chris Carter, one of the film's producers, when Carter
takes a DJ job with KROQ's competitor. Rodney's anger rises as deep
as the virtual knife is jabbed in his back.
Although not
entirely bittersweet, there is a pale sadness that rises up in the
film's throat in its final third. Mayor of the Sunset Strip
is a nostalgic merry-go-round. It's quaint, charming, and often
entrancing. You're riding the best horse on the ride. And the music
couldn't be better. |
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