It Might Get Loud (2008)

      There's a pitch-perfect moment in It Might Get Loud, director Davis Guggenheim's loving homage to rock guitar and three of its more talented practitioners. It comes when the filmmaker follows Jimmy Page, the legendary lead guitarist of Led Zeppelin, into Page's music library, where he puts on one of his favorite 45's--"Rumble" by Link Wray. Up until this point Page has seemed quiet and cautious, secure in his status as one of rock's gods, but unwilling to give too much away. But from the moment Wray's vibrato surf-guitar growls from the speakers, Page's face lights up with glee, and he begins explaining to the cameraman what it is about Wray's performance that spoke to him as a young guitarist. He starts strumming an imaginary guitar, and when Wray rips off a particularly slow, nasty riff, Page laughs out loud over the audacity of it, his face the very picture of unadulterated joy. In that moment he ceases to be Jimmy Page, rock legend, and becomes one of us, just another guy playing air guitar in his bedroom, trying to explain to his buddy why this is the best goddamn guitar solo ever.
      If It Might Get Loud never again quite manages to reach that level of transcendence, it's mostly because the film is actually hampered by its central conceit. The idea was to bring together three huge guitar talents from three different generations of rock and roll (Page, U2's The Edge, and Jack White) and let them discuss their philosophies, techniques and influences. Drop some instruments into the mix, and they'd even jam together a bit. It's a great idea, but the constraints of the format--especially a very limited time for the three men to become comfortable with one another--seem to have yielded little in the way of a real guitar summit. Not much of their jam session ultimately makes it to the screen either, and when it does, like their brief three-way conversation, it feels a bit forced.
      The trio seem much more comfortable--and the film loosens up and hits its stride--during their parallel individual interviews. Guggenheim structures these around defining moments in their careers--their first instrument, their first gigs, their greatest musical influences. It's during these intimate discussions, on the artists' home turf, that the viewer gets a more rewarding glimpse into the very different approaches of the three men. Page seems leery of over-analysis, preferring to leave things up to a "creative spark;" The Edge revels in gadgets and tech, endlessly running new riffs through dizzying combinations of foot pedal and echo effects. Jack White, who alone of the three might still be considered to have something to prove, turns out to be the most articulate narrator of his own creative process. For White, making music is all-out war; the guitar's not a lover to be coaxed and caressed but an enemy to be grabbed by the throat and throttled into submission.
      Guggenheim knows, however, that discussions about rock guitar, however interesting they might be, cannot compare to even a few bars of actual rock guitar, and he wisely illustrates the men's points with examples of their work. It's interesting to hear The Edge discussing the various time signatures at the beginning of "Where the Streets Have No Name," but when you see him rip into the first few bars in front of a giant arena full of fans--all of whom respond in instant recognition--the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Jack White does a good job of explaining how he fights his instrument for ownership of the music, but not as good as does seeing him drenched in sweat in a tiny venue, with his back to the screaming crowd, brandishing his guitar at the amp like a threat, all to coax out the feedback that he's looking for.
      The guitar legend summit might not go into the annals of rock lore, but when you leave It Might Get Loud, you'll wish you were 14 years old again. Then you could bug your parents for a cheap electric guitar, and spend hours and hours locked in your room learning how to make it talk. Then maybe you could be a guitar hero, too.