Give My Regards to Broad Street

“So Bad,”  the title of one of Paul McCartney’s best songs in years, perfectly describes the new film he’s made. The most financially successful composer in history has written and stars in Give My Regards to Broad Street, a vanity production that represents Paul’s most misbegotten artistic decision since he first invited his wife Linda to play in his band.

McCartney portrays himself, a musician whose master tapes for a just-completed album are suddenly discovered missing. But this small plot is a lame excuse to throw together a bunch of songs and big production numbers.

This in itself is not offensive: If the imagination behind the set pieces were interesting or provocative, the film might be a diverting jumble. But there is nothing interesting about McCartney’s fantasies; he’s become so middle-of-the-road that the zany doings – like the punked-out “Silly Love Songs” or the grandiose “Ballroom Dancing” – just seem staid.

This is a far cry from the supremely pixillated Beatles films of the 1960s. A Hard Day’s Night and Help! had a beautiful looniness, cultivated by director Richard Lester, that caught the essence of the four lads from Liverpool. They were anarchic, sarcastic, impossibly quick and bright. Anything could happen. Anything was possible.

Give My Regards to Broad Street should not be mentioned in the same breath as those films. It does recall the Beatles’ first fiasco, the Magical Mystery Tour film, which was a similarly self-indulgent mess.

In Broad Street, McCartney relies on a bunch of Beatles songs, as well as newer material. Half are performed in simple studio settings – the lovely “So Bad” benefits from a straightforward performance.

The other half have elaborate presentations – none more elaborate than “Eleanor Rigby.” Now, despite the approval of sociologists in 1966, “Eleanor Rigby” was never really that great a song, and here it’s stretched out in to a 10-minute minidrama that involves McCartney and friends boating around a serene lake in old-style period costumes.

If that sounds like an excruciating home movie, that’s precisely the way it plays. After a while, numbness sets in. You wait for something to come and puncture the sense of self-satisfaction.

For instance, comic Tracey Ullman might have injected a little life into the proceedings, but she walks in, appears glum, and walks out a while later. The great Ralph Richardson, whose last film this was, does a five-minute cameo looking appropriately quizzical.

The other actors play themselves: Ringo Starr, Barbara Bach, record producer George Martin, and Linda McCartney, of course.

Early in the film, there’s a recording session in which McCartney sings a medley of old hits. He lapses into “Here, There and Everywhere,” one of his most beautiful Beatles tunes. It’s just Paul and a guitar, with some horns in the background. That lilting melody and the ultra-simple words work their magic; suddenly you’re jarred into remembering what a gifted man this is, and it makes the failure of the film that much more maddening. McCartney’s obvious gifts may have induced a laziness that can’t be shaken off easily. He needs something to challenge his talent. Making a movie with people who are going to agree to his every whim is not the way to do it.

Originally published October 28, 1984, in the Herald.

Well, that last bit sounds like conventional wisdom, about Paul needing his ass kicked – how ever true it might be. I sound a little smug about “Eleanor Rigby,” too. I mean it is what it is. But the film is really godawful. None of which touches McCartney’s greatness – I mean who really cares if he makes a bad movie; he could’ve stopped in 1965 and been in the pantheon.