5/5
I have yet to return from Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck. I left the cinema three nights ago, yet my mind is still there, taking in the splendor, oxidizing in the sadness. The film is extraordinary, as much as any documentary I’ve ever seen, not because of all it shows but because of all the things it doesn’t. It features no retrospective thoughts on Cobain’s death, nor is it stunted by fawning interviews with seasoned musicians expounding upon the ripples felt by the music of his band, Nirvana. All convention has been clipped away, leaving nothing but the raw matter of Kurt himself, seething, unbound. Restless.
What am I even doing attempting to review a film like this? How could any one critic hope to scratch the surface of something so full and reverently unwieldy? For the sake of the review, I wish I were kidding. Whether cushioned by voiceover or vivid animation, the film is Kurt in his own words, and it commits to this vision for 132 minutes of what feels like a category-5 hurricane of videotape, journal entries, and the music through which he was made eternal. I found myself not watching the film so much as clinging to it for dear life, and after about 20 minutes, I learned to simply let go and take a deep breath as it left me in its wake.
The first picture we see of Kurt Cobain is an idyllic one, almost alien in contrast to his legacy: clean, blond, blue-eyed, and rosy-cheeked. A smiling baby Kurt. According to his mother and sister, his only preoccupations at this stage were with how everyone was feeling, making sure that everything in the world was as right as it should be. How short-lived that image now seems. His parents get divorced, and young Kurt rejects the destruction of his family outright and with no shortage of rage. He begins acting out, fighting back, and otherwise reveling in, or perhaps escaping to, the teen spirit with which he would become synonymous.
And these traits didn’t just manifest, oh no. They burst forth with the primal want of a starved panther. He wrote, recorded, and filmed even his slightest thoughts, as if every impression he had was somehow false unless made permanent. What seems like every one of those impressions is brought to life through rotoscope-like animation and digital augmentations of Cobain’s constant scribbling. These, not interviews, are the vehicles that drive the film. They reveal truths and patterns no one not bound within his bones could ever see, for even as he evolved from a disgruntled teen to a proud alchemist of abandon, he harbored something no amount of bombast could hide: deep down, he cared. He cared what people think about him, about his music, his life. A very nuanced discussion could be had about where that complex came from, but it was there, and it rotted him hollow.
In this sense, just as Richard Linklater’s Boyhood yields the sensation of youth lived and expired, so too does Montage of Heck. Only this time, there is no red-rock horizon, no rest-of-life promise. This is it. We watch first in exhilaration, then with trepidation, and finally in horror as Cobain’s mind turns helplessly from white to black as mold until one day, it all stops. If this is how it felt to spend two hours trapped in his head, there is nothing to envy.
I could go on about Cobain’s relationship with Courtney Love, a young vocalist whom Cobain would eventually marry, and how it summoned and nurtured his worst tendencies. I will not. I could write further about his heroin addiction and how it drove him to corners of himself he was not prepared to face. I won’t. I could also mention the sweep of Nirvana’s fame and the staggering speed at which it accumulated, and how forensic public scrutiny did nothing but push Cobain deeper into the furnace. I refuse. These things have been dissected ad infinitum since their beginning, and there is nothing I could add that hasn’t been repeated beyond meaning. That may be the most refreshing thing about the film — it too remains agnostic on so many subjects ripe for the blame game. Was it his parents that seeded his addiction? Or was it Courtney? The film realizes that the answer is far more complex than either of those, and it has the intelligence and sensitivity to allow it to be such. It has no deck to stack.
I’m going to be completely honest with you: when I walked into the cinema, I was not aware that Kurt Cobain had taken his own life. Some of you may have already stopped reading and closed the tab, appalled that I would have the audacity to tackle this subject without knowing something so essential. Put down the torches. I did know that Kurt Cobain died prematurely, and I was aware (however nebulously) of allegations of the involvement of Courtney Love. It was my assumption, however, that his death was caused by an overdose. Not so. The film’s only mention of his suicide is one sentence over black, the only block of text I can recall, and in my ignorance, it struck me like a dart to the neck. Then, credits roll.
As someone who didn’t quite see it coming, I’m surprised I didn’t require more. I felt no confusion, no sense of being short-changed. I simply accepted it for what it was, a punctuation of a troubled and resplendent life. No accusations, no fingers pointed, and no teary recollections from friends and family. None necessary. Why can’t a film allow a harrowing act to speak for itself? An explanation would do nothing but trivialize it. All there is to be said about Kurt Cobain’s death was spoken by his every waking moment. Everything else is press.
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: www.spencermoleda.com
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: [email protected]