Metallica: This Monster Lives

by Joe Berlinger

  During those strange few days, I had a few moments of my own that made me think of fate and chance. At some point, I don’t remember when, it hit me that the flight that went down in a Pennsylvania field, the one where passengers fought with the hijackers to keep the plane from reaching its Washington, D.C., target, had originated in Newark and was bound for San Francisco. I remembered that I was originally supposed to leave Tuesday morning. Even then, I couldn’t recall why I had changed my ticket to leave the night before. (I flew out of JFK that day, not Newark, but Bruce and I had taken many Newark—San Francisco flights while making Monster.)

  Another moment occurred just as I was finally about to go back home. The day after the Mustaine session, planes were still grounded in San Francisco. I was desperate to do anything to feel less trapped. By then, there were no rental cars to be found in the Bay Area, so Wolfgang and I decided to drive our production van (rented on September 10) down to L.A., to see if we could get a flight out of LAX. That weekend, I kept getting seats on flights to New York that were subsequently canceled. My wife was in tears after every cancellation; she really needed me at home. As anyone who flew immediately after the flight ban was lifted will remember, airports seemed to be filled with more military personnel than passengers. Security was hellish. On Sunday, I was finally able to get a seat on the last flight to New York that evening. I sat there for hours, waiting for my flight and trying to chill out by listening to the Cure’s Disintegration over and over on my iPod (I really couldn’t handle Metallica’s music just then).

  I was sitting there in the gloomy terminal, staring into space with my headphones on, when I felt an intense glare on me. It was almost like a warm light cutting through the airport’s harsh fluorescents. I glanced across the room and saw an attractive woman staring at me with an odd look on her face, almost like she was surprised to see me but also expected it all along. She got up and walked across the waiting area to introduce herself. I’m not sure how she recognized me, but I recognized her name. She used to run a small company that produced and occasionally distributed small, arty films. We wound up having one of those intense, bonding conversations people have when they find themselves stuck in an elevator … or waiting for hours to catch a flight after 9/11. We talked about what a strange, emotionally wrenching week we’d just had. She told me that she wanted to make a documentary about Kabbalah, the tradition of Jewish mysticism. She was a serious Kabbalah student and had a high-ranking position with the Kabbalah Centre. She had talked to many of the world’s most serious Kabbalah scholars about participating in the project, which she envisioned as the definitive Kabbalah film. She had approached the famous documentary filmmaker D.A. Pennebaker about working with her, but he wasn’t interested. She said I was the next person she had planned to approach. And here I was.

  I said that I was indeed interested. The devastating last few days had reminded me that during my dark days after Blair Witch 2, I had a longing to make a deeply spiritual film. I told her that I had never really conceived this project in any detail, but I imagined something like Koyaanisqatsi and Powaqqatsi, Godfrey Reggio’s mesmerizing non-narrative films that make you see the modern world in an entirely new way. She told me that I was a gift, that the universe was aligning to create an opportunity for us to make a Kabbalah film. I was a little embarrassed by what she said, but also excited and, frankly, a little scared. I had spent months listening to Phil talk about the universe speaking, and now someone else was telling me that it was speaking directly to me. It was an intoxicating rush of spirituality, which actually made me a feel a little better about this terrible week.

  I returned to New York, determined to learn more about Kabbalah and explore the possibility of collaborating with this woman on her film. She and I spoke a few times, but I ultimately decided the project was not for me. She wanted to make a very literal, straightforward film—interviews with people active in the movement, footage of the classes, etc.—but I felt that was a very limiting concept, and that a more poetic, metaphoric style would better convey the teachings of Kabbalah. (I was still thinking of Reggio’s films.) Thinking so much about this project and how much I wanted to make a spiritual film made me wonder what the hell our Metallica film was about. A few weeks after 9/11, I was in the shower (where I come up with many of my best ideas), and it occurred to me in a flash I didn’t need to search elsewhere for a spiritual film—I was right in the middle of making one, assuming we could nudge the film in the direction we wanted. One tenet of Kabbalah is that the ego is a potentially destructive force—an idea that James and Lars were struggling with; to some extent, so were Bruce and I. Our Metallica film was shaping up to be an exploration of human growth and creative potential. The subjects of the film were among the biggest stars in the music world, and their fans, many of whom felt persistently disaffected, could really benefit from this message.

  One thing I love about Some Kind of Monster, that makes me proud to have helped bring it into the world, is that we managed to preserve the spirituality at its core. It has to do with the mystery of the universe speaking and the ways we grow as our lives intertwine with those around us. If Jason Newsted’s departure hadn’t triggered a moral crisis within Metallica, we wouldn’t have had a film. If James Hetfield hadn’t reached rock bottom, Metallica quite possibly wouldn’t have come out of it all with a great album—or any album at all. If 9/11 hadn’t happened, I would bet that Dave Mustaine would have spent the rest of his life fantasizing about things he’d like to say to Lars Ulrich, rather than actually getting the chance. And, of course, if I’d decided to catch a plane leaving New York in the early morning of September 11, instead of late at night on September 10, I might not be here at all. Blair Witch 2, 9/11, the Kabbalah film project—they all played a role in helping me realize what Monster was about for me. I always thought that when I finally got around to making a spiritual film, it would be a modest undertaking with a limited audience. By documenting a spiritual quest through the lens of pop culture, Some Kind of Monster will reach a large number of people, for which I feel very fortunate.

  LARS: There was an incredible rivalry or competition between you and James. At the time, we couldn’t think about it and analyze it like we can now, but in retrospect it brought out a lot of great energy between you two, but also … I remember standing on the sidelines watching you two guys. One minute you’d hug and embrace, and the next minute you’d be close to fucking fighting each other. It was quite some energy.

  DAVE: When James and I picked up guitars and started playing in unison, the world changed. If you weren’t there, you don’t know. It was kind of like being Jonas Salk and discovering the cure for polio. You just knew you were onto something. And I’ve lived the last twenty years of my life, you know, cherishing that moment, just knowing, like, Jesus Christ, I learned how to split the fucking atom!

  THE UNFORGIVEN

  I think the session with Lars and Dave Mustaine is one of the film’s most powerful scenes. I also think (and comments I’ve heard from people who’ve seen Monster back me up) that Dave comes off very well: intelligent, poised, and articulate. He seems very unlike his reputation as an arrogant jerk. Dave didn’t necessarily see if that way, however, and tried to convince us not to use any footage of him.

  In the summer of 2003, nearly two years after Lars’s encounter with Dave, we were deep into editing Some Kind of Monster. We decided to cut in clips from Megadeth’s music videos and some archival MTV News footage about the band. We really wanted Monster to be a film for everyone, not just Metallica fans. Much as we did with the “Temptation” montage, we figured a similar archival sequence about Megadeth would bring the uninitiated up to speed.

  I contacted Mustaine’s two managers to make the request. Dave flipped out when he heard we were using the footage of him in the therapy session with Lars and Phil. He denied our request for archival material (MTV’s rules stipulate that the artist involved must approve of any requests for footage of that artist), and his people b
egan pressuring us to remove any footage of Dave from our film. But I was so convinced that he would like the footage if he saw it (also, I really wanted the archival material) that I broke our long-standing rule of not showing works in progress to people we’ve filmed. I sent him the scene with him and Lars, emphasizing that I was doing so as a courtesy, not for his legal approval. Dave had signed our release form; several times during filming he’d asked us to shut off our cameras, suggesting his acceptance and awareness of the camera being on. I told his managers that I thought the scene rehabilitated Dave’s image. One manager agreed with me, but the other said that he thought Dave’s fans didn’t want to hear him admit that he’s “number two” and that being kicked out of Metallica still haunts him.

  I told them that I had no doubt that we had the legal right to use the scene (I offered to send them the footage of Dave asking us to turn off the camera) but that I don’t personally like it when someone in our films regrets their participation. I suggested that maybe Dave needed to see the scene in the context of the film. I wasn’t allowed to send him a tape, but I offered to fly to Arizona to give him a private screening. Dave declined and reiterated, through his managers, that he wanted the scene removed. The managers appealed to my “sense of fairness and humanity.”

  I pulled out my trump card. I said that I didn’t own Some Kind of Monster—Metallica did, and I’d be happy to let the band know Dave was unhappy with the scene. If they chose to honor Dave’s wishes, the scene would hit the cutting-room floor. “Maybe you should call Metallica’s manager, Cliff Burnstein,” I suggested. They laughed, as if to say, “Yeah, right.” Then one of them made some joke about sending a Mafia type to break my legs. I reiterated that it was Q Prime’s and Metallica’s call—not mine. Fortunately, Q Prime and Metallica didn’t want the scene excised, and I wasn’t about to disagree.

  Courtesy of Joe Berlinger

  CHAPTER 13

  SEEK AND DEPLOY

  We presented a conundrum to Q Prime’s Peter Mensch and Cliff Burnstein: would the things we were filming be harmful to the band’s image and finances? (Courtesy of Niclas Swanlund)

  My encounter with the Kabbalah woman made me realize that I was making the spiritual film I’d always want to make. The problem was, Bruce and I hadn’t really started making the movie—we’d just been shooting it. Even though my confidence lagged the longer James stayed away, we knew in our hearts there was a movie here that could transcend its original promotional intent. Finding myself back in New York, a city struggling to deal with the open wound of 9/11, it seemed like a good time to put Metallica’s money where our mouths were. It was time to begin cobbling together Some Kind of Monster.

  There’s no doubt that digital video has transformed the documentary world by freeing filmmakers to shoot the huge amount of footage verité documentaries demand. The downside is that video can be too easy to shoot. Because of the cost constraints of film, as well as the many technical problems that can result when shooting film, it’s important to screen material almost daily to see what you’ve got. With video, there are fewer variables that can negatively affect your footage, and it costs less, so you can shoot and shoot and shoot and ask questions much later. It’s easy to get lazy about watching your material. The next thing you know, you’re swamped in footage with little perspective about what you have.

  In the months since we’d begun filming Metallica, we had made some effort to keep track of what we had. We would screen dailies from time to time to take stock of our footage, but there’s a big difference between spot-checking dailies and really watching stuff with an eye toward editing it into something coherent. Bruce and I would often talk about our grand plans for the film, but we were relying too much on our memories of what we’d shot without an objective analysis of what we had. We were swimming in Metallica footage. Before we started to drown, we figured we should take stock of what we now had.

  We don’t normally start editing while we’re still shooting. This is often a consequence of the logistics of documentary filmmaking; we’re usually too busy trying to stay on top of filming to think about anything else. Also, editing is an expensive process, so we don’t like to start it until we’re ready to focus on it completely But we were now in an odd situation. Without James, we found ourselves in a sort of hurry-up-and-wait situation: although we continued to film, we were in a holding pattern. I suggested to Q Prime that we start editing for two reasons. First, I wanted to see if what we had was as good as what we thought we had. I also wanted to keep this project alive in the minds of Metallica’s managers and Metallica themselves as they sank further into despair.

  We had not yet begun to lobby for making this a feature film, but we did mention that we thought there was a strong television show here, hoping to nudge plans away from the infomercial idea. We felt the material was good enough for a network to buy it for a broadcast rather than Metallica and Elektra buying commercial time, which had been the plan all along. As an introduction to the footage, the Q Prime guys asked us to cut a trailer, so that they could get a sense of what we’d been doing. At this point, we already had a formidable four hundred hours of footage. In November, we hired David Zieff, an editor we’d worked with before, to begin to make sense of it. This was the first time Bruce and I had an editor work on our material without one of us in the room for directorial guidance. We left David to his devices and concentrated on filming. It was highly unusual to dump so much material on an editor with no instructions, but we were curious to see what a talented editor who was a complete outsider to the process would make of this material. David began by putting together “wide selects.” He would take a three-hour therapy session, for instance, and turn it into a ninety-minute reel of the best moments, which I would watch religiously.

  The first clues that this film would not exactly edit itself—that it would in fact be as much of a slog as the actual filming—were the dejected phone calls we started getting from David while we were in San Francisco. He was really struggling. If there was a film here, he didn’t see it. He thought the therapy sessions were tedious and the jamming scenes maddeningly diffuse. He hated any scenes with Lars, whom he thought just came off as an ass. Barricaded in an editing room in New York, David felt we’d abandoned him with a quixotic task. “I don’t think I realized how vast it was going to be,” he says, looking back at that time. “I’m sitting there, screening hour after hour of rich rock stars whose lives are better than mine whining about their pathetic problems, which seemed really boring.”

  I was upset by his negative opinion of the footage and our subjects, but I also empathized with his situation, so I decided to give him some direction by laying out a rough structure. Instead of creating a linear, time-based outline, something we did with Paradise Lost, I broke the film down by themes. David and I had very different sensibilities when it came to the footage. David is a musician himself, which I think helped him really get a handle on the music scenes that Bruce and I had a harder time recognizing. He was masterful at taking hours or even days of studio noodling and condensing it so that you really felt a song coming together. The first sequence he cut was the evolution of “Some Kind of Monster” from its earliest riff into the finished song. “Congratulations,” I told David when he showed it to me. “You broke the back of the beast.”

  Although he was more cynical about the therapy than I was, he teased out a lot of the humor that I missed. I saw the material in much more humanistic terms and thus reined in David’s initial instinct to make fun of the band and especially Phil. Bruce served as a buffer between David and me, dragging us both toward the center.

  In March, we emerged with a twenty-six-minute trailer. The first people to see it were Metallica’s managers at Q Prime. Bruce and I were extremely nervous about this screening. We were acutely aware that we had not been making the film we had been hired to make. Q Prime and Elektra Records still held out hopes for a TV-ready documentary about the history of Metallica and the making of the new album. Altho
ugh the Q Prime managers knew how much time we’d been spending with Metallica, there was a strong possibility that seeing actual footage would be the wake-up call that would make them shut us down.

  From the beginning of this project, these guys had been in a precarious position. Q Prime is one of the most powerful management companies in the business, with a very specific management philosophy They aggressively manage their clients, but without a lot of hand-holding. Other managers act more like “reps” for their clients, but Q Prime assumes its clients are adults—at the end of the day, Q Prime will make strong suggestions, but the clients call the shots.

  Realizing that Metallica was going through a crisis period, management recommended that the band hire Phil. But because of Q Prime’s non-hand-holding philosophy, the managers didn’t come to the meetings themselves. “We missed out on some pretty intense stuff, and it was somewhat to our detriment,” Q Prime’s Marc Reiter says now. “The band was reinventing itself and certainly reforming itself. In hindsight, one of us should’ve been there for some of the meetings. That said, many of those meetings were private. We wouldn’t have been welcomed the way Phil was—not even the way Joe and Bruce were. I think we realized, in the midst of the process, that we needed to be out there more.”

  Initially thinking they had hired a temporary stopgap in Phil, the managers saw him becoming more of a band confidant, and even, it seemed at times, a surrogate manager. It’s not like Phil forced himself on Metallica; they, and especially Lars, wanted him around to talk about all things Metallica. Q Prime’s first obligation was to its clients, so if Metallica wanted Phil there, the managers had to respect the band’s wishes, even if it meant being temporarily consigned to the sidelines while Phil became part of the inner circle. Phil’s apparent inclination to be involved with discussions that were probably best left for the managers occasionally became a problem for the band members. In one scene that didn’t make it into Monster, Phil was asked to distribute some faxes at the start of a therapy session for an upcoming conference call. The documents contained the details of Jason’s financial demands as an ex-member of Metallica. My understanding was that Phil was just supposed to distribute them, that they weren’t meant for him to review, but he took a look at the faxes and struck up a conversation about them with the band. James politely interrupted Phil to say he wasn’t comfortable talking about this with him. “I’m sorry, man,” Phil said. “I just get so excited about participating, I overstepped my bounds.”