The defining moment of this film is watching an inhumanly bored Charlie Watts staring morosely at commercials on a hotel television screen. In fact, you'll find yourself slumped in a chair somewhat like Charlie as you watch this haggard, limply compelling shambles of a documentary. The Stones themselves come off less as satan's own emissaries on earth and more as boring, boorish, and mundane teenagers -- emissaries of casual personal disintegration. It all leaves one feeling icky, stained, and disrespectful of rock legends, which is probably why it's impossible to see today. That, and the scenes with groupies having sex and roadies shooting up and nodding off. Interminably boring and unstructured, but probably a dead-on accurate portrait of a travelling rock band.
Review of Cocksucker Blues
