At the same time, a quarter-century removed from U2's hectoring late-'80s persona, Rattle and Hum is surprisingly watchable. This might be the 13-year-old U2 fanatic in me talking, because I loved this movie back then, and even now that I can see (and make fun of) its flaws, I've never been able to completely extract Rattle and Hum from my heart. I don't think it's outrageously revisionist to declare Rattle and Hum the most quotable rock documentary ever; after rewatching it last week, I'm convinced that wannabe heirs like Coldplay and Kings of Leon have missed out by not referencing Rattle and Hum constantly, like rappers nodding to Scarface. "Am I buggin' you? I don't mean to bug ya"; "Charles Manson stole this song from the Beatles; we're stealin' it back"; "OK, Edge, play the blues"; "Apar-TIGHT!" — Rattle and Hum is rivaled only by This Is Spinal Tap in the memorable-lines department, and U2 didn't have the benefit of some of the world's finest improv-comedy minds coming up with their material. Christopher Guest might be a genius, but he's no Bono in Rattle and Hum.
What's most striking about Rattle and Hum now is how different it is from the majority of rock documentaries made in the past 10 years. The primary criticism of Rattle and Hum in 1988 was that U2 comes off as self-important and presumptuous about its place in rock history. But there really wasn't a question about whether making a movie about U2 was valid; the band's status at the time inarguably justified a film backed by a major studio (Paramount) that opened on nearly 1,400 screens. U2 is presented in Rattle and Hum with the assumption that the audience already accepts the band's importance as a given. There are no talking heads making the case for The Joshua Tree being a seminal album, nor is there a brief history lesson on U2's career achievements. The band members aren't even formally introduced; like the '60s rock films it emulates (Don't Look Back, Gimme Shelter), Rattle and Hum operates in a world where guitar-slinging documentary subjects can be credibly portrayed as avatars for larger truths about contemporary society. When we see the Edge jam with a Harlem gospel choir, or Bono harangue a concert audience in Denver about Desmond Tutu, it's supposed to mean something beyond the narrative of a successful rock tour. Even if the execution of Rattle and Hum isn't entirely successful, that doesn't mean pointing cameras at U2 in 1987 wasn't a sound strategy for magnifying pop culture at the time.
Rattle and Hum (along with 1991's Madonna: Truth or Dare) marks the end of this era of rock documentaries. If Rattle and Hum were made today, it would look like Mistaken for Strangers, a "very honest, personal narrative"5 about indie band the National that premiered earlier this month at the Tribeca Film Festival. Strangers resembles Rattle and Hum in the broad strokes: It follows a successful rock band on tour behind its most popular album (2010's High Violet) and shows the band members commiserating with Certifiably Important Public Figures (including President Obama and director Werner Herzog). But the films are dramatically different in terms of scope: Rattle and Hum attempts to place U2 at the center of the world's most serious conversations about weighty issues like apartheid, the U.S. military intervention in El Salvador, and the "troubles" in Ireland, while Mistaken for Strangers uses the rock-doc format to tell a more intimate story about two brothers — the National's lead singer, Matt Berninger, and the film's director, Tom Berninger — attempting to reconcile after a period of estrangement. Rattle and Hum, for better or worse, reflects the sociopolitical values and attitudes of a specific segment of culture at a specific moment in time; Mistaken for Strangers narrows its focus on one guy (and his quirky metalhead brother) in one band. Strangers does not set out to define what the National is supposed to mean in a larger cultural setting; like most 21st-century rock documentaries, it implies that music has no larger meaning.
