What’s weirder: that the original, dopily derivative Spinal Tap movie became a rolled-gold classic, or that the sequel is actually pretty good? Rob Reiner’s follow-up arrives 41 years and a hell of a lot of wrinkles after its predecessor introduced a parody heavy metal band that clung to the zeitgeist like spandex to a sweaty crotch. I was being slightly facetious with that opening question, given This Is Spinal Tap’s success can actually be explained through historical precedents: it popularised the hugely influential mockumentary format.
Spinal Tap II: The End Continues
It’s not unreasonable to suggest that, if Spinal Tap hadn’t cranked their music to 11—literally— the genre wouldn’t have been a thing. Therefore we wouldn’t have had The Office, Parks and Recreation, Borat, and the oeuvre of Christopher Guest—who co-wrote both films and returns as Nigel, the band’s lead guitarist. Maybe faux-doco offsprings would’ve looked different without the mockumentary format, like found footage movies and reality TV.
We’re into “myth of origins” territory here, pop culture’s tangled cables having no true starting point. So pardon me if I got a tad carried away—it’s just fun to imagine that these buffoons played a role in giving us The Blair Witch Project and, erm, Donald Trump.
There’s no denying that, in their new movie, an aura of patheticness surrounds the trio, consisting of lead singer and guitarist David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean), bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer) and the aforementioned Nigel. The film’s saving grace is that they were always pathetic. Spinal Tap are, or were, legitimate stars in the narrative world, but their coolness itself was a joke, serving as a foundation from which various gags could be projected, often involving egotism (i.e. sandwich-related hissy fits) and almost always stupidity.
Thus their return to screens is protected by comedic, faux-cool cushioning. It’s perhaps surprisingly enjoyable to spend time with these guys again. McKean, Guest and Shearer never seem to be working hard for laughs—which regularly landed for me and the audience I was among—and their now droopy faces and weary demeanors provide added pangs of pathos. The characters in fact are more endearing this time around: the smug little shits in the original have become highly huggable old-timers we want the best for.
Like in the first film, The End Continues begins with Reiner appearing on screen as documentarian Marty DiBergi, here explaining that a quirk in an old business arrangement means the group are contractually obliged to reform and play one final gig—the old “putting the band back together” trope. There is, thankfully, no arbitrary stretch of “will they or won’t they” pretending; the band quickly concedes that they must swing back into action, their lack of choice—and passion—enhancing that aura of patheticness.
The trio are joined by a new and much younger drummer, Didi (Valerie Franco), whose impact on the group dynamic feels intentionally clipped, as if the writers (Reiner and the three stars) determined that properly fleshing her out, and giving her a shtick more developed than Animal from The Muppets, might violate the essence of the picture. This is not an unreasonable assumption: the chemistry between the three leads is what keeps the whole thing afloat. It’s almost certainly for the best that Didi wasn’t used as an attempt to generate intergenerational appeal—like the little kid from Blues Brothers 2000—which could’ve been very cringey.
The band are also joined by cameos from Paul McCartney and Elton John, the latter resurfacing to play a key role in the big final number. This works for the audience but feels like another humiliation for the characters; these muttonheads can’t even properly headline their own show. They can, thankfully, headline their own movies. This new one is not an 11 out of 10, like the original—but it’s pleasantly silly, sweet, and noisy.
