It’s sad to have to admit but a certain two word review came to mind while watching Rob Reiner’s belated and wholly unnecessary return to the world of adorably clueless British hair-mettlers, Spinal Tap. Not straight away mind, as the film delivers a scintilla of what turns out to be false hope in its opening scenes in which Christopher Guest (as Nigel Tufnel), Michael McKean (as David St Hubbins) and Harry Shearer (as Derek Smalls) show that they’ve been keeping their character traits and accents in cold storage for all these years, so the potential for magic is there.
And yet, no-one has a clue what they’re doing or what the purpose of this slip-shod, opportunist enterprise is. The film pays such heavy and pummelingly-consistent homage to the unimpeachable 1984 original, This is Spinal Tap, that the whole thing starts to look unseemly and self-satisfied. It’s hard to think of a single gag here where the punchline isn’t based on knowledge of the OG film. Its awfulness is poetic in a way, in that it’s exactly the kind of out-of-touch and trivial project that any such has-been band might produce for a quick twilight years buck.
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We meet Hope Faith (Kerry Godliman), daughter of the late Ian Faith, the band’s cricket bat-sporting manager from the 1984 film. She has inherited the management rights to Spinal Tap, and has noticed that they have one outstanding gig in order to fulfil their contract, and so she decides to pull them back in from their various dismal day jobs and trot them off to a New Orleans megabowl for one last dino-rockin’ hurrah.
Where the first film showed fascinating interpersonal tensions between the band, sublime instincts when it came to even the smallest supporting turn, and a masterclass in comic editing and the hard cut as punchline, this one forgets, or simply ignores, all of that. Nothing lands. Instead we have bloated cameo appearances from rock legends bowing at the altar of Tap, a few zeitgeist‑y references to things like crypto currency and Stormy Daniels, and lots of side characters who have very little to do. Godliman is basically on camera for exposition purposes only, while Chris Addison, as wolfish concert promoter Simon Howler, makes for a terribly-performed version of a character who has no business in this world.
Let’s be real: even the most hardcore of Tap-heads is going to find it tough to muster enthusiasm for such a dubious creative endeavour, but so rich are these characters and so skilled are these performers that you must feel that they know something that we don’t. Yet at best, this is a late-period diversion that most fans will either ignore or try to forget, while at worst, it does reach the point where you feel as if it might be actively working against the band’s legacy. For a masterclass in the modern retooling of classic comedy properties, look no further than the new Naked Gun movie. It can be done! Just not here…