“Hey man, did you hear? Pavement is finally getting a biopic!”
*High-five slaps echo through the room*
“No way! That’s tight. I love hyper-pretentious mildly-annoying esoteric art rock bands! Pavement totally rules!” *Pinches head of penis through pants*
“It’s on Mubi; they’ve got all the hyper-pretentious mildly- annoying esoteric art house films on there. And this one’s got a big bulging budget!”
“Right on, that’s totally sweet!”
“And it’s directed by that one guy… Perry or something… the one who wrote himself into his own movie about fucking his sister, while he blatantly steals Michael Cera’s entire act.”
“God, I friggin’ love tasteful incest films.” *Pinches head of penis harder* “Let’s put it on.”
Wikipedia describes Pavements (not a spelling mistake, just a cheeky little title) as a 2024 American experimental musical biopic docufiction concert film. You may be asking yourself, “What the fuck is that?” And the answer you’d be looking for is, “not good.”
Pavements, directed by Alex Ross Perry, is a documentary cataloguing the career and influence of the 90s indie band, Pavement. The film focuses on the band’s reluctant embrace of mainstream success and attempts to mock our classic understanding of music biopics and documentaries. Since I can remember, Pavement has been one of my favourite rock bands, and I credit the lead singer, Stephen Malkmus, for my interest in songwriting. Pavement’s music features a warm watery childish charm that combines all the sly rule-bending joy of art-rock with sincere dopamine-heavy guitar riffs that are scientifically proven to make teenagers bike faster. Pavement’s most identifying characteristic is Malkmus’ signature stream-of-consciousness lyrics performed with a style of speak-singing, which massively contributed to the idea of ‘slacker rock.’
By my definition, the purpose of a band documentary is to, for an hour and a half, make you feel closer than you’ve ever felt to the band on display—to learn their history, feel their highs and lows in your chest, and sit with the most brilliant portions of their discography. It seems that Pavements intention was to spit in the face of this well-practiced, satisfying tradition. I’m all for subverting a genre, but what Perry and Pavement substitute in place of informative jukebox-style documentary, is akin to a half-edited cringey art school brainstorm. Now, I am not naive. I know that Pavement derives its identity from subversion and an ironic embrace of pretension. But because I grew up slightly after their prime, I have always guessed as to how self-aware this ostentatious act is.
Unfortunately, Pavements has presented me with two disappointing possibilities: Option A, is that the band, whose music I’ve revered for close to a decade, is so desperately-quarked-up and pseudo-transgressive that this film is their genuine piss-absorbing cinematic footprint, as intended. Or… Option B, Pavement’s innocently flippant nature was transposed into something far more snooty and unlikable via Alex Ross Perry’s obsession with making an ‘experimental’ documentary.
Pavements opens on split-frame footage of the band at their ‘99 Coachella performance—referencing their tepidly received breakup, and positively anticipated return. With the punch of a dollar-store cap gun, the doc starts firing off into arbitrary Pavement concept projects. These include a satirical biopic that eats up the majority of the film’s run-time; pre-production and behind-the-scenes footage of said biopic; a musical theatre production, which felt the least symbiotic with its surroundings; a hyped up reunion tour that is condensed into a one show concert film; and a Pavement paraphernalia gallery opening, that feels, I don’t know—juvenile. All of these elements are broken up with testimony from fans, celebrities (I’m looking at you, Jason Schwartzman), band members, and one cranky Malkmus who doesn’t seem like he wants this project to happen at all. There is something for everyone and simultaneously nothing for anybody. The film makes little effort to appeal to those uninitiated with Pavement, introducing the band as something you should have heard of by now or you aren’t cool. Pre-existing fans are presented with a smorgasbord of ideas that feel like parody, but aren’t executed with enough comedic commitment for the audience to be sure of their intention. I can only equate the structure of this film to being swarmed by toothless piranhas—overwhelming, a lack of bite, and eventually annoying. May I just repeat, a musical production of Slanted and Enchanted benefits nobody—not even as satire.
I understand the meta intention behind throwing a comedic amount of mainstream glitz at a band that’s historically resisted such exposure, but this core concept is nothing more than a gimmick. On paper it’s kind of cheeky, but when this joke is stretched out into a two-hour American experimental musical biopic docufiction concert film, the bit gets old. The real kicker is that Perry is still trying to make something informative out of this mess, which feels frustrating considering that’s the product I actually wanted. It is unconvincing and disingenuous to mock a format while simultaneously engaging in said format. Pavements’ pursuit of meta status, steamrolls the film’s attempt to define the band as an effortless and cool 90s group.
Pavements’ worst offence was its soundtrack. Pavement’s unifying quality is not the band’s ironic attitude; it’s their songs. It felt like the person soundtracking the film had never actually listened to Pavement; it felt like an afterthought. More aptly, it seemed like someone selected a Redditor’s list of the most iconic tracks, and then played them each for seven to ten seconds, checking them off the list like direct quotations in a rushed university paper. For a true fan it felt like edging. I sat there, ears turning blue, waiting for the one uninterrupted delicious sonic moment—something to serve as a reminder of Pavement’s magic—but that moment never came. Again, when appealing to the viewer who is unfamiliar with Pavement, the lack of music offered nothing for a new fan to get behind. Furthermore, the film made attempts at discussing Pavement’s enigmatic esoteric lyrics and songwriting, but for every compliment paid, there seemed to be an even longer clip of Malkmus denying his work as poetry or important. Instead, he described the band’s success as mimicry and luck.
Let’s talk about the director. Even as I write this, I am aware that my choice is structurally indulgent and a poor review decision that is going to lend itself to a less engaging essay, but hell, if Alex Ross Perry can do it, so can I. First things first: Perry directed the Harness Your Hopes music video (a TikTok explosion song that could be likened to Radiohead’s Creep), and he deserves his flowers. The video was solid—good job Perry; Sophie Thatcher is cool. Moving on. Perry’s feature films have always struck me as icky. I’m basing this on two films: Listen Up Philip and The Colour Wheel.
Listen Up Philip is about two narcissistic authors who are so pretentious that they push everyone in their lives away, including the audience. The Colour Wheel (which is of course shot in black and white) is about a brother and sister who are so fringe and sarcastic they need to have sex with each other—subsequently pushing the audience away. Perry writes and directs what I consider to be, comedically stereotypical art films that feature a degree of self-involvement that feels masturbatory and bleak (two emotions that I assume readers experience during my reviews). Based on the two named films, Perry seems to be grasping at a sort-of Charlie Kaufman status, substituting genuine self-deprecation and neurosis for a grating Soho hipster persona—one, may I add, that always seems to get him laid (even if it’s with his sister). The reason I’m beating on Perry so hard, is because Pavements feels like Perry’s movie. As I was watching, I placed the same familiar over-designed energy and manufactured idiosyncrasy that dominates his other works. Pavements has the vibe of ‘I smoke cigarettes so that people think I’m cool,’ and Perry is the type of guy that dumps red paint on a blasting subwoofer and calls it experimental.
Now maybe I’m just in denial—callously pointing fingers at Perry because I can’t come to terms with the fact that the band I love might be a group of cringe boomers. Maybe I’m frustrated because I didn’t get to hear the entirety of a Pavement song in their two-hour American experimental musical biopic docufiction concert film. Emphasis on, CONCERT FILM. Maybe I hate myself because I saw a little too much of me in that sweet little moustached mama’s-boy that cried at Pavement’s tour announcement. Or maybe I’m all worked up because I love documentaries. I don’t want to see their tradition subverted! I want a nice clean informative piece of cinema that plays the hits and fills my body with warm fuzzy familiar feelings. Similarly to Pavements, I don’t really know how to end this, so I’ll leave you with a Malkmus lyric that I think sums up the whole damn show.
“Well I’ve got style… miles and miles… so much style that it’s wasted.”