Todd Haynes’ impressionistic 2021 documentary portrait of one of the most influential rock bands of the 1960s begins with a standard warning about possible epileptic seizures caused by flashing lights. They make no mention of the brain-fracturing use of multiple split screens featuring from two to twelve still or moving images at nearly all times. But this multimedia barrage turns out to be an effective methodology of exploring The Velvet Underground, whose mystique—the band was dressed in black and wore wraparound sunglasses—was as integral to their renown as their music.
Those unfamiliar with the group will find no explicatory handholding here. Haynes introduces band members in an elliptical manner, with Andy Warhol’s screen test footage—filmed at his NYC art mecca, The Factory—of John Cale (viola) and Lou Reed (guitar, vocals) shown while in voiceover they each talk about the early days before the band came together (Cale in a live interview, Reed archival). Disjointed imagery is served up alongside the Warhol clips for visual illustrations tied to the reminiscences, ranging from Cale’s Welsh countryside to miniature gay porn clips (Reed was bisexual).
Other interviewees—a girlfriend of Reed’s, Warhol regulars (including film critic Amy Taubin and actress Mary Woronov)—offer piecemeal anecdotes, while Reed discusses his attraction to doo-wop music, and Cale recalls his experiments with drone music—keyed to the refrigerator’s 60 cycle hum, which seemed to be “the drone of Western civilization.”
Roughly 50 minutes into the film, the four principals—Cale, Reed, guitarist Sterling Morrison, and drummer Maureen “Moe” Tucker—form The Velvet Underground and are brought to the attention of Andy Warhol, essentially becoming the Factory house band. To add an exotic flavor, the German actress and singer Nico joins the group, and they are launched into the public eye as the main attraction in Warhol’s 1966 multimedia series of events called The Exploding Plastic Inevitable, featuring Warhol’s films (including footage of the band) projected behind the performers, as well as dancers.
A subsequent tour sent the band to museums and art galleries—where they found new devotees, including interviewees John Waters and Jonathan Richman—before heading to the West Coast for a brief stint. Tucker recalls they hated all that “love, peace crap,” and the feeling was mutual as rock impresario Bill Graham told the band before they went onstage at his famed Fillmore West rock venue, “I hope you fuckers bomb.”
Before making their 1968 second album—the Nico-less “White Light/White Heat”—Reed fired producer Warhol. A musically aggressive LP about hard drugs and drag queens, the noise prompted a recording engineer to tell the band: “I don’t have to listen to this. I’ll put it on record; when you’re done, come and get me.”
And then Reed kicked Cale out of the band, becoming the de facto leader and recruiting guitarist/vocalist Doug Yule to fill out the quartet. In 1970, the band would make their fourth and final album, “Loaded,” featuring one of their most popular songs, “Sweet Jane.” By the time they released the record, Reed had already left, eventually embarking on a notable solo career.
Haynes successfully captures both the mystical allure of The Velvet Underground and the poetry of their unconventional music (which would heavily influence rock and punk bands that followed) in songs including “Sister Ray,” “Candy Says,” “I’ll Be Your Mirror,” “All Tomorrow’s Parties,” and perhaps most significantly, “Heroin,” an unofficially emblematic paean to drug abuse. Haynes’ film closes with a haunting reunion performance of “Heroin,” with its famous lines “When I’m rushing on my run/And I feel like Jesus’ son” (the inspiration for Denis Johnson’s acclaimed short story collection “Jesus’ Son”).
Presented with a 4K digital transfer, The Velvet Underground looks fantastic and features extras including an audio commentary with Haynes and editors Affonso Gonçalves and Adam Kurnitz; outtakes of interviews shot for the film (with musicians John Cale, Jonathan Richman, and Maureen Tucker; filmmaker Jonas Mekas; and actor Mary Woronov); a conversation from 2021 among Haynes, Cale, and Tucker; complete versions of some of the avant-garde films excerpted in the movie, including Piero Heliczer’s “Venus in Furs” (1965); an optional annotated subtitle track that identifies the avant-garde films seen in the movie; and a booklet with an essay by critic Greil Marcus.
Whether Haynes’ film will create new fans is questionable. Many people simply don’t like The Velvet Underground, who never found mainstream acceptance (Cher’s assessment focused on the off-putting nature of the music: “It will replace nothing except…suicide.”). But as an unconventional music doc, The Velvet Underground weaves a hypnotic spell—the viewer’s eye initially struggles to take in everything, before ultimately bowing to physical limitations and simply letting the sights and sounds wash over.
Highly recommended for both public library and academic collections.