As musical documentaries go, none are more grippingly intimate than Stop Making Sense. The live audience exists as an invisible force, somewhere in the darkness beyond the stage. For most of the film, we bound about the stage with Talking Heads as they dance, stumble, and thrash to their own pulsating music. That energy flows into the screen and speakers, resulting in an infectious, exuberant, and exhausting experience. More than anything, Stop Making Sense captures the joyous release of a band at their absolute peak. And we get to experience it all, right alongside them.
Filmed over four nights, director Jonathan Demme (Silence of the Lambs) casts a wide net over the Heads’ oeuvre. That means we get early hits (“Psycho Killer,” presented to the thump of an 808 drum loop), deeper tracks (“Making Flippy Floppy”), and side projects (“Genius of Love,” from the Heads-adjacent Tom Tom Club). Through Demme and his collaborators, these disparate tracks mold into a seamless, theatrical whole.
That vibe gets going right away, as Demme presents each band member one song at a time. We begin, of course, with Byrne pounding through an acoustic variation of “Psycho Killer.” Then, bassist Tina Weymouth joins for the lilting, eccentric “Heaven.” Chris Frantz’s drum kit rolls out for “Thank You for Sending Me an Angel,” and Jerry Harrison sends his guitar chugging through “Found a Job.” (While this is a cool way to showcase each member of the band, it also forebodes their dissolution, as the belief would later rise that Byrne was a star surrounded by session players.) Also present for the duration are Ednah Holt and Lynn Mabry (who somehow match Byrne’s onstage cardio while belting every note), percussionist Steve Scales, Bernie Worrell on the keys, and Alex Weir on lead guitar.
I’ve seen Stop Making Sense many times, and it’s impossible to pick a favorite scene. “Life During Wartime” pulsates with electricity, while “Swamp” captures the Heads in all their kooky, catchy mayhem. Still mention this movie to anyone who’s seen it, and their mind will probably go to Byrne’s oversized suit. It pops up for “Girlfriend is Better,” during which Byrne undulates like one those inflatable people in front of cell phone stores. He bounces and shimmies, like man possessed with the relentless energy of his own music. It’s a moment of perfect visual poetry, iconic and enduring.
With all that said, I can’t do the movie any actual justice. You simply have to see it. Stop Making Sense is an examination of why we go to concerts, and how there is liberation within the spirit of music. For anyone who doesn’t know Talking Heads, let this experience make you a convert. You’ll be all the better for it.
88 min. PG. Max.
