Remembering ‘This Is Spinal Tap', the best rock movie of all

The 1984 masterpiece This is Spinal Tap—available to rent on Apple TV and Amazon Prime Video—is the best rock movie. In the film documenting the misadventures of fictional band Spinal Tap, when frontman and rhythm guitarist David St Hubbins is asked what he would like engraved on his tombstone when he dies, the blond rocker has a think. “Here lies David St Hubbins,” he begins, grandly, as if about to deliver a line of spectacular import, a serving of accidental philosophy, an aphorism, something witty and quotable. Then, almost immediately, his blond eyebrows sag. “And why not?”

Why not, indeed? I have always loved that line from an exhausted old rocker, and I find it elegant, even poignant, in its casual existentialism. Let sleeping Davids lie. With the world struggling now to come to grips with the tragic and violent death of the film’s director Rob Reiner earlier this week, there is no better time to immerse oneself in the rock and roll mayhem of his first fantastic film.

Spinal Tap is a groundbreaking mockumentary that birthed a genre—eventually leading to television shows like The Office and Modern Family, where the fourth wall exists only so characters can look wearily at it. Reiner, an Emmy-winning sitcom star and son of the legendary comedian Carl Reiner, made his debut feature without a full script, improvising a classic with a stellar cast. Michael McKean plays David, Christopher Guest plays lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel, Harry Shearer plays the bassist Derek Smalls and they all play their own instruments. Reiner, inserting himself into the film a la Martin Scorsese in The Last Waltz, plays documentarian Marty DiBergi, a baseball-cap wearing filmmaker trying to capture the magic of a band that has lost its fizz.

Rock is never just about the music. It is about the mythmaking, the insecurity disguised as swagger, and the endless, endless negotiation between “I am a god” and “Please clap.” Reiner’s Marty DiBergi solemnly interrogates the life and times of Spinal Tap, a British hair-metal band now fading from the scene, going from large arenas to small auditoriums—except in Japan. The film incisively (and lovingly) punctures the pomposity of rock gods and their excursions into self-seriousness and indulgence.

Guest’s Nigel Tufnel is a holy portrait of the guitar-obsessive: sensitive, vain, childish and brilliant. When he plays an exquisite and melancholy composition on the piano and is asked what it’s called, he replies, “Lick My Love Pump.” McKean’s David St Hubbins is the frontman seeking gravitas but forever tripping over poseur pretensions. Shearer’s Derek Smalls is the long-suffering bassist trying to keep the peace. Calling the other two “fire and ice,” he likens his own role to be “in the middle of that, kind of like lukewarm water.”

These three, together with an array of drummers who keep dying in freak accidents, symbolise not only the wounded pride, the posturing and the bickering of rock… but also its romance and camaraderie. Aren’t we all just brothers with matching cold sores? Every beat is recognisable, and the film offended many a rocker when it came out. Ozzy Osbourne, Aerosmith, Jimmy Page all saw themselves in these buffoons. Even Scorsese was upset, though this may be because this film is better than his.

Listen to the songs. They may have daft titles and lyrics—including Big Bottom, Sex Farm, and (Listen to the) Flower People—but the tracks themselves aren’t throwaway jokes. Big Bottom, that glorious anthem of bass-driven lust, is performed with an absurd multiple-bass lineup that still makes musicians laugh, because it’s both idiotic and kind of… compelling. The songs are solid enough that you can imagine them being played between “real” tracks on classic rock radio, which is precisely the point. The parody works because the craft is real.

“How much more black could this be?” wonders Nigel about an all-black album cover, “And the answer is none. None more black.” “I believe virtually everything I read,” says David, “And I think that is what makes me more of a selective human than someone who doesn’t believe anything.” These are funny lines, sure, but also true to rock: ridiculous, self-mythologising, heartbreakingly earnest. Like musicians who get confused when trying to put together a sandwich, or get lost on the way to the stage.

Rob Reiner was an unshowy—and underrated—filmmaker who made far too many incredibly iconic films. He followed This is Spinal Tap with the unforgettable coming-of-age drama Stand by Me, the all-ages adventure film of all time The Princess Bride, the most quoted romantic comedy When Harry Met Sally, the psychological horror thriller Misery, and the bulletproof courtroom multi-starrer A Few Good Men. His production company Castle Rock Entertainment backed The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile and a little show called Seinfeld.

Thank you, Rob.

This is a legacy that feels too large for one man, a ridiculously diverse body of work full of movies that have punched each of us in the gut at some point. With his films, Reiner made us love and laugh and cry and sing and dream. His career is an inspiration to storytellers everywhere to follow their hearts and tell their stories, without worrying about limitations or genres. Much like the rockers that he satirised, Rob Reiner played on and on. And why not.

Raja Sen (@rajasen) is a screenwriter and critic. He has co-written Chup, a film about killing critics, and is now creating an absurd comedy series.