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The staging--and Demme's filming of it--builds toward an orgasmic release of music, rising from the bare-stage simplicity of Byrne, accompanied only by a boom box on "Psycho Killer," to the ecstatic crescendo of "Burning Down the House," by which time the Heads and additional personnel have all arrived on stage for a performance that seems channeled from heaven for the purpose of universal uplift. (God bless Demme for avoiding shots of the luckiest audience in '80s pop history; its presence is acknowledged, but not at the viewer's expense.) With the deliriously eccentric Byrne as ringleader (pausing mid-concert to emerge in his now-legendary oversized suit), this circus of musical pleasure defies the futility of reductive description; it begs to be experienced, felt in the heart, head, and bones, and held there the way we hold on to cherished memories. On those three nights in December 1983, Talking Heads gave love, life, and joy in generous amounts that years cannot erode, and Demme captured this act of creative goodwill on film with minimalist artistic perfection. Stop Making Sense is an invitation to pleasure that will never wear out its welcome. --Jeff Shannon
After seeing it, not really knowing much about the quirky, catchy pop music of David Byrne and his brood, the band and the film won me over. The film starts, like the concert, with a bare stage. David Byrne walks out, alone, with his guitar and a radio. Within moments of beginning "Psycho Killer," Byrne's tripping all over the stage, falling all over himself, stumbling into the edges of the film frame. With that, he begins to show some individual, I-am-not-a-rock-star personality. When the staging does come, when the band joins in the fun, that personality expands.
And when it comes time for the giant suit, this film's more than just a concert. It's become a story. The story of the band, the story in the lyrics and a commentary on how abstract visual art and obscure, obtuse music can interact.
Demme never shows the audience through the film, though you can hear them, for the film is just about the band, the stage. It's not about the reaction they get.
It's fascinating, and you'll find yourself a fan of Byrne's music, as a result.
The sound quality of the DVD edition is excellent (especially the bass), as is the picture quality (colors are crisp and the contrast is excellent) - plus it's nice to finally have an edition of the video presented in widescreen.
There's some interesting stuff among the extras, especially the storyboards (which can be viewed either alone, with notes, or in split screen with stills from the completed film). The David Byrne 'self-interview' is artful in its awkwardness, with one David Byrne in a number of different costumes interviewing a David Byrne wearing the big suit. There's a funky montage that works slightly better than the theatrical trailer that is also included; otherwise, they're almost interchangeable.
My only complaint with this re-mastered edition is that the three songs (Cities, Big Business, and I Zimbra) that were included in the original video release have been relegated to bonus tracks, rather than integrated into the film. Not only that, but they are presented in fullscreen/pan & scan format rather than in the widescreen format of the film, and in little more than a straight transfer. The improvements in image and sound quality of the film proper are sadly lacking here. The colors and contrast are dull in comparison, as is the quality of the soundtrack.
Well worth repeated viewings. Fix up them bonus tracks, and you've got a 5-star presentation...