Review of the film “Birth of Legends” by Timothy Scott Bogart

At the box office is Spinning Gold by Timothy Scott Bogart: not so much a biopic of the legendary music producer of the 1970s Neil Bogart (1943-1982), but a declaration of the director’s son in love with his untimely deceased father. According to Mikhail Trofimenkov, only sons of love can justify the existence of an amazingly boring film about an amazingly fun era.

Birth of Legends is oddly reminiscent of Matt Johnson’s recent film Who Killed the BlackBerry about the inventors of the smartphone. Although, of course, where are the “nerds” of the 1990s, and where are the merry fellows of the 1970s from Casablanca Records, who promoted, among other stars, Kiss, Isley Brothers and a funny fat woman, who was not yet called Donna Summer, but Palm Adrien Gaines.

However, the “ten differences” between them are not so easy to find. The difference between the eras is leveled by the common, that of Bogart, that of Johnson, an infantile, almost lisp intonation. The heroes of the past, in the opinion of today’s directors, are obliged to wear idiotic outfits and hairstyles, send promising investors to hell, despite the fact that the inexorable credits fix the astronomical growth of the company’s debts, and constantly dance.

Dancing, Neil enters the frame, adjusting to the swinging parishioners of the African American church. In the dance he conquers the heart of his future wife and in the dance he seduces the future mistress. He and his team seem to be playing producers, just as Neil had previously played circus performer, advertising agent and soft porn actor. In the same way, the boys from Kiss play sinister zombies, in the interval between rehearsals, mentally sorting out uncomplicated three chords on the guitars in a backyard way. Playing sex symbol is the shy Ladonna, whom Neil teaches new intonations.

And the big uncles of show business, whose hundreds of thousands Neil spends for years either on mediocrely organized concerts, or on orgies – if the on-screen “conscientious childish debauchery” can be called such a loud word, look at him almost with tenderness. Real “sharks” would have long ago forced him to gobble up a couple of guitars without salt and pepper. And for the sake of order, only once will they send bone-breakers, kindly agreeing not to break his hand, with which he signs contracts. Even less able to scare overdressed tough guys from the ghetto, waving pistols in Neil’s face, and immediately fraternizing with him.

When Neil is beaten, he remembers how once on a Brooklyn street, creditors taught the life of his postman dad. Theoretically, it should look heartbreaking, but only theoretically. Baseball bats are like pellets to an elephant, and even a quarter of a century later he is in perfect health, pulls money from his son and, having caught him consuming cocaine, shouts something in the genre of “throw this filth immediately.” To which Neil, like a boy whose ice cream is taken away, bulges his eyes, lets out snot and twists his mouth, carefully and unconvincingly depicting a victim of drug addiction.

Since the director’s intonation doesn’t change at all, all potentially entertaining twists and turns seem suffocatingly monotonous. Neil makes no visible effort to succeed, and the maxims that he utters from time to time do not even sound parodic, but simply mocking: they are so out of place, about nothing. “I understood the main thing: we can be whoever we want.” “I became someone else.” “Dad, mom, you taught me to win, taught me to dream.”

It’s easy to guess how the authors of the film will get out of the stream of boring motley. Just as they plunged into it, that is, dancing. Illuminated now with marzipan-pink, now with “blinding” white light, Neil – all in white – will leave the film and life, dancing with Donna, who also wrapped herself in white furs for such a solemn occasion. Maybe the director himself was crying, saying goodbye to his father again, but the audience only has a desire to wipe the movie camera flooded with tears.