How can one define ‘raw’ music? That elusive energy that record executive Richie Finestra was desperately looking for in the sadly short-lived HBO series Vinyl. . . it can be found in the first few seconds of the MC5’s “Kick Out the Jams” – the listener immediately learning that they are trying to melt your face right off; or in Jimi Hendrix’s reworking of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” – his inventive, inspirational guitar work seeping into your very bloodstream; anarchy can literally be felt in every single note of The Sex Pistols; while Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” emits a primordial energy that never lets you go. Truly transcendent, it transports you to a different plane of existence. . . a confounding place which finds vexing combinations of pure natural energy diluted with sex and drugs, innocence clashing with the realization that life isn’t fair – it is like living in the gutter of heaven itself. . . still perfection (after all, it is heaven), yet in a way you couldn’t imagine possible in such a place. A combination of youthful exuberance and unbridled energy that captures lightning in a bottle, that raw sound is not something that can be sustained. Coming from a creative and energetic place when youth meets adulthood, where simplicity combines with complexity, two things inevitably happen – you either evolve into something more refined and mainstream, or you burn out/die. An excellent example of this lengthy definition, 2010’s The Runaways, written and directed by Floria Sigismondi, depicts the short lived run of the titular band.
Though not as raw as the music itself (which is a bit of a shame), Sigismondi transports us to 1970s America. . . a place where women aren’t meant to become rockers. Don’t tell that to Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart), a feisty, guitar wielding teen with a drive to succeed. Nearly the same can be said for Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning), a David Bowie loving, glam gal who flips off her high school classmates as they rib her for working on her stage performance during a talent show.
Though they don’t know each other, they soon will. First, night club frequenting Jett luckily spots eccentric record producer Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon) – all into the hair dye and face paint, who sees an opportunity to pair Jett with female drummer Sandy West (Stella Maeve) – the beginnings of an all girl band. Soon, they are recruiting Currie – who becomes lead singer, the rest of the band rounded out by lead guitarist Lita Ford (Scout Taylor-Compton), and bassist Robin (Alia Shawkat). A moment during Currie’s audition shows the spontaneity in which their beloved “Cherry Bomb” was created – literally on the spot.
Under Fowley’s unusual guidance, the gals hit the road, playing small gigs only to find themselves overseas furthering their name (in fact, they were bigger there than they ever were in the United States – especially in Japan). Eventually they get the record deal they so covet.
Yet, this is rock `n roll, and that also means chaos. Born out of that very chaos, we see where Currie came from. . . a family where her dad (Brett Cullen) is trouble, her mother (Tatum O’Neal) has remarried and fled halfway across the world, and her sister, Marie (Riley Keough), is grudgingly left to pick up the pieces. Pair this lingering burden with sex, drugs, and competing band interests (a.k.a. jealousy), and it all leads to some dissension amongst the ranks (some of this brought on by Fowley himself – seeing it as good publicity).
Clearly not as raw as the story itself (the word tame comes to mind), Currie herself explained, “this is just a lighter kind of flash of what The Runaways were for a specific amount of time. How do you possibly take two and a half years and make it a film that’s an hour and a half, and make it even closely touch what was truly going on? It’s an epic. The true story is an epic, and that’s just not anything that could have been done on film”. Like so many other rock biopics, The Runaways falls into the trap that is Hollywood – how can you find that balance of marketability and debauchery. . . leading to the inevitability that nearly every effort leans closer to the former (glossing over the seedier side of the industry instead of capturing the true tale). Yet, despite this, The Runaways still captures the flash in the pan energy and creativity found in this short two and a half year period (also aptly depicting 70s Los Angeles), the triumvirate of performances from Fanning, Stewart and Shannon perfectly capturing their real life counterparts. It provides a bird’s eye view into their lives (a closer look than most of us will ever get – at least, without reading Currie’s biography that the film is based off of), and tells a most worthy piece of rock history – that women can most definitely rock!
With a rather touching final note, The Runaways, as they are named, ran their course – Currie’s drug issues (as well as drive to try her hand at acting), and Jett’s own drive to succeed, bringing things to an end after those two and a half years mentioned above. Intriguingly, Jett evolved, becoming a successful, more polished rock god – though, I would argue, never truly having that raw essence again. So, revisit the rawness with this biopic, it’s the bomb (cherry, that is).