London, 70’s. In David Bowie’s “Moonage Dream,” a hairy young man plays instruments (even his soul remains on the microphone) from the Hammersmith Odeon stage where Bowie had literally just performed. The boy’s name is Steve Jones. (Toby Wallace)The first rehearsals of his band (who’s supposed to be the bass player, yet to be announced) are scheduled for tomorrow. Nobody really knows how to play and sing, but it doesn’t matter, the topic is somehow immediately discussed. A few chords – pecks a song. While drinking a beer in a bar, the image of working class bullshit is fabricated. The store, with the catchy name “SEX”, is looking for, in addition to concert pants, Malcolm McLaren, the future manager, producer and mastermind of the entire operation. (Thomas Brodie-Sangster).
Green Day frontman Billie Joe Armstrong has a famous story about a fan who stopped him on the street and asked him what punk was. In response, Armstrong kicked the nearest trash can and said it was a bummer. When the interlocutor finished the same tank and clarified whether it was really punk, Armstrong realized that it was no longer punk, but fashion. Danny Boyle’s series “Pistol”, based on Jones’ memoirs, is more fashionable than punk – not anarchist samizdat, but glamorous brilliance. Everything in it is measured seven times – and this cold calculation noticeably cools the unruly fire. But even in the case of the Sex Pistols, which are essentially a production project themselves and are not spontaneous (but pretending to be), even that is appropriate.
Estimates of the “Pistol” were divided approximately equally – quite rightly. Screenplay by main entertainer Craig Pierce (“Romeo + Juliet”, “Moulin Rouge!”, “The Great Gatsby”) rather weak: as the main character, Jones himself is presented quite voluminously, with the rest things are much sadder. The show features “pistols” and McLaren, Vivienne Westwood, Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders, Mick Jones, Pamela Rook. (portrayed by Maisie Williams), Nancy Spungen, and other remarkable citizens. But exactly what they seem to be is that, while a separate series could be made about each of them, they practically don’t have a life of their own outside of the Sex Pistols’ history of rise and fall. The six chapters available in principle are completely inadequate for a clear definition of the context. For example, from the series, it will be difficult to find out what exactly everyone is not so pleased with: the country is gray, the regime is fascist, and what is gray and fascist in them, limited to some general expressions, undisturbed. As a result, it turns out neither here nor there – for convinced fans who are already in the material, there is something outrageously little in general, for those who are completely unprepared, the series turns out to be boring, albeit boring. Short.
All of this seems to be offset by a shocking dose of Boyle’s antics: an absolutely daring montage by John Harris. (“Jackpot”), a dreamy blurry 4:3 frame interspersed with all manner of chronicles and hilarious movie clippings, a parade of hits on the soundtrack (Johnny Rotten draws the phrase “I Hate” on his Pink Floyd tee—to the Pink Floyd song, of course). With the stylistic bacchanalia and demeanor in Pistol, overall, it’s a clear raid (every time you hear – what would you think – a pistol shot – on the screen saver as it’s called), as if it’s about some kind of glam-rocker, not about dirty bums. But again, if you look at the nature of the team, it turns out to be just as it should be.
Longtime John Lydon and the great Public Image Ltd. Rotten, who ran the group, scolded the series beforehand (“The most disrespectful shit I’ve ever encountered”) and even unsuccessfully sued the rest of the Sex Pistols to ban it. about the use of their music in the show. The Rotten series, performed by the little-known artist Anson Boon, was, of course, written with undisguised sympathy, and in the end it turns out that everyone in general has the right. But the real Lydon’s wrath is, of course, the best praise possible, although it would be strange to expect anything else from him.