As far back as the spring of 1977, Malcolm McLaren had been trying to get a film about the Sex Pistols off the ground. At that time, the punk craze which the Pistols had spearheaded was flourishing in the UK even as McLaren "managed" the band into a blind alley; by 1980, when this abomination of a film was finally released, the Pistols were no more and punk had splintered into a confusing variety of subgenres. What does "The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle" tell the viewer about the Sex Pistols and why they mattered? Sadly, not much. "That film was us preventing the whole thing from turning into a dreadful tragedy and turning it into a fantastic enigma," McLaren said years later in "England's Dreaming", Jon Savage's definitive tome on UK punk. "That's what we tried to do, to lie incredibly." In that regard they succeeded, but McLaren's statement was pure bullshit: he and director Julien Temple lied out of necessity. Vocalist John Lydon (Johnny Rotten) had left the band in early 1978, and budgetary constraints prevented the hiring of actors for anything more than a few minor roles, so McLaren *had* to take center stage. The end result was a long, disjointed rant (padded with live footage, interviews, animated sequences and painfully unfunny scenes intended as comic relief) about how causing the Pistols to self-destruct had been his master plan all along, and it's terrible. Only during a performance of the title song does it look as if anyone's having any fun. McLaren repeatedly insists that the music itself was meaningless, that he was interested only in attracting adolescent fans "who loved to dress up and mess up." Which begs the age-old question: was punk ever about music, or was it just a pose? That query will elicit a broad range of responses from the various participants in the movement. But ask guitarist Steve Jones and drummer Paul Cook (who had formed the group before McLaren entered the picture, and for whom the Sex Pistols were a labor of love) and they'll tell you that the Pistols were a rock 'n' roll band, plain and simple. They're right. The gestures--the haircuts, the silly clothes, the pretensions of revolution--were empty. It's the music that endures.

I was a 2nd-generation punk in New Zealand, selling my soul to this awesome raw-cuss r'n'r movement in 1979. I was quite excited to see this flick on the big screen, but 15 minutes into the film my friends & I started growing restless, feeling that the ones who'd been swindled were ourselves. Oh well. This still stands as an interesting snapshot of "Talcy Malcy's" version of events,but anyone with half a brain to rub together (& had read more than one NME punk expose on punk rock) could discern it as utter bollox. So, be advised, youngsters, this is Malcolm's wet dream of himself as the king of all Svengali, whereas the truth was FAR from that. Malcolm had no major game plan beyond stirring things up, and while he should be credited for providing "the lads" with a focus in his Sex boutique (and an education in Seditionist politics), much credit must also be given to Vivienne Westwood's fashion ideas. Naturally, Johnny Rotten's contributions are shamelessly ignored (he famously impressed Malcolm by wearing a Pink Floyd tee-shirt with "I Hate" scrawled at the top before he'd even joined the Pistols), due to the fact he'd left the group in disgust by the time this sad cash-grab of a film came to fruition. So - watch 'The Filth & The Fury' for the fact, & watch this for the fiction. There ya go! :-)

after seeing John Lydon break down over the senseless exploitation of sid vicious when he absolutely hit bottom in Temple's other sex pistols film "The Filth and the Fury," he must have wanted to disown this little piece of trashy lucre. the finale with its spinning headlines and the anka-fueled massacre are just the tips of the iceberg on the meaty, excessive collage film assembled here.the star on board is mclaren, in full sleazeball form. to the unsuspecting eye, it seems like an act. it is, of course, until you realize that it's the same act he kept up in the public eye for years, while running his little pet project dry. mclaren cut his teeth on theater of the absurd and fancies his managerial life a kind of kaufman-esque performance. the only problem is that mclaren often-times does not have the consent of his lab rats, a bunch of naughty British hooligans that called themselves the sex pistols (no, mclaren did NOT come up with the name). therefore, it's partially amusing to watch mclaren credit himself with inventing the wheel in punk rock, and partially disgusting when you approach the subject matter knowing he gave nary a shat about the well-being of his bandmates nor the political and social commentary they, especially rotten, were trying to convey. mclaren was more interested in assembling a forefather to reality TV- life as nihilistic, self-imploding art. the movie itself is not much. there's laughs here and there, but mostly it's a bloated and deadweight companion piece to "The Filth and the Fury," mostly wound into watchability by excellent live performances and some bizarre visual interpretations of songs (some of which seem hardly composed on a punk rock budget). "who killed bambi" (also mclaren's idea with none of the band members really interested in the idea) shows up in several parts and proves to be a quite pointless endeavor.the majority of punk rock was not known for its rock star exploits off the stage (in fact, that was kinda the point- that these werent rock stars at all). if there had to have been a band to make a boisterous film with sex and drugs and midgets and animation and disco dancing, it's probably best that it was the sex pistols. overall, this film should be mostly reserved for hardcore fans, though others may find value in the sheer novelty of the package. but do yourself a favor and see "filth" first.

This is basically just an attempt by Talcy Malc to claim all of the credit for the Sex Pistols. As a movie it barely hangs together. It does give a chance to see some otherwise unavailable concert footage. The bits of "Who Killed Bambi?" that are kept in look far more interesting. I believe that in addition to being scripted by Roger Ebert the direction is by sleaze-king Russ Meyer (I may be wrong there).