THE MYTHMAKING OF OUR MYTHOLOGY

KYLIE M GOT ME THINKING at the weekend. Everyone well understands that the creation stories of artists – the troubled childhood or the idyllic one; the thousands of hours of practice and slogging or the 10 minutes it took to write the hit; the miracle of discovery or the whatever it takes doggedness that overcomes indifference; the troubled genius or the humble genius; or, that favourite of TV talent shows, the ugly duckling who blossoms before our eyes as beneficent judges shine on – is at least in part fabrication.

Not because every one of them is a liar, but because every one of us is. We want to believe the stories because of what it tells us, or confirms for us, about what we think it takes, why we might have been able to do the same (or never could), how special our favourites are (and how awful the ones we hate are) … the whole romance of it. We might say we want some truth, but in truth we want a story. If we have a chance to view the legend or the fact, the fantastic or the quotidian, we choose to view the legend. For reference, see Beckham, or anything Beckham-related.

Indeed, in the mould of that entertaining supposed insider view of David, Victoria and those of the kids who were happy to be product placements, we’re enjoying Netflix’s Kylie though it turns on only one or maybe two personal insights across three episodes, and it is the younger Minogue, Dannii, and former Minogue attachment, Jason Donovan, who are the most frank and revealing about the brutality of this public life (and themselves), and friend/admirer Nick Cave who is the most entertaining and insightful about her artistic choices.

We buy the bits of hesitation or apparent discomfort, the moments where it seems she questions what it is the filmmakers will end up putting in, as if the final word on what we see is in the hands of anyone other than the star of the event. And we accept the claim this is as much about her career too, though large parts of her 40 years as a recording artist are ignored, her quest for independence more alluded to than shown, and collaborators are heard more in passing, and her long-time manager not at all. We accept it all, as we almost always do.

Showing up or hiding out?

So you could say we can’t really complain too much when that desire to believe meets the desire to shape that story, in retrospect or as-it’s-happening. That is the mythmaking around mythmaking.

The “revealing” or “frank” or “personal” documentary, the film that shows us not only backstage with, but inside the spirit, aspirations and disappointments of an artist – or performers in in any field as is the case of two I’ve watched in the past weeks on Liverpool FC’s “miracle in Istanbul” and the French World Cup debacle of 2010 – is as contrived as the now-standard opening for all these things. You know the drill: someone walks into frame and sits down in a room where lights and other devices are visible there’s chat off-camera, nothing official has started yet, maybe our star looks pensive or distracted, then they snap a clapperboard or say something like “let’s do this” and the real thing starts.

It’s so natural, it’s a glimpse inside the belly of broadcast beast, it’s … bullshit, of course.

During Lilith Fair: Building A Mystery, the reasonably balanced film about Sarah McLachlan’s pioneering, business-changing, quality female-centred music festival of the late ‘90s, there’s a brief sojourn in the festival’s third year, 1999, for Lilith staple Sheryl Crow to perform at Woodstock 99. A feral sausagefest of mostly shit music by shit bands playing to shit people – Limp Bizkit says it all; rape, rage and riots as the enduring memories wraps it up – Woodstock 99 was not only the antithesis of Lilith Fair but the nadir of the decade’s turn to posturing men as avatars.

Yet the documentary about that debacle how is a reminder that it is possible to do hard work and tell a story that isn’t about protecting sensibilities because you’re not dependent on the sensibilities and wallet and cooperation of the story’s subject.

But that’s not easy, financially, practically or morally, and it gets harder the narrower your focus becomes and success depends on time, access (to friends and associates, not just the star) and approval (for music, footage etc). You can see why big names seeing the scope would think, why would you bother letting any of this go unfettered? Hell, Bruce Springsteen doesn’t, and we’ve been getting a lot of “personal” films from him in recent years so there’s a lot to judge.

Springsteen’s control over everything is not a glitch but the point. We’re talking an organisation that not only decides what is made available to the directors from the archives and files, but how it is used and what is allowed to be said by whom and when. If any issues arise that paint anyone in a less than stellar light, from the personal to the practical to the professional – say, the manic inability to settle on songs, concept and sound that nearly crushed everyone in the studios and saw whole albums abandoned that bedevilled his studio work in the ‘70s especially but, as the recent Lost Albums box set showed, carried on for decades after – well, that ain’t gonna run baby unless its smoothed, excused and framed just right.

A letter? Sure. Subbed before submitting.

This is hardly new of course for that organisation, nor confined to film. Springsteen only talks to a handful of journalists around the world, and those are limited to ones he’s spoken to before, primarily, or even better one who is part of the organisation. His past few tours of Australia have had an in-house journalist doing the interviews, the backstage coverage – if there is any – and any other necessary material. And from Springsteen’s perspective, why wouldn’t you?

Cut down on the time-consuming, almost certainly repetitive and boring, and in the end – because the shows sell out now in hours or even minutes – unnecessary interactions with people who won’t automatically take directions from you. Get your tame journo to say what you want instead. Everyone gets what they want. Easy!

Sports teams have figured this out too, offering inside views of groups seemingly open to everything like jokes, emotion and personal announcements, telling us we are getting depth. Except they’re controlled, confined and dependent on approval. Michael Jordan’s involvement in the Chicago Bulls documentary The Last Dance was the only thing that mattered – no Mike, no point, right? – and from there it is a small step even if he’s not making editorial decisions, to saying if he doesn’t like it he’ll pull out or withhold permission, then let’s not upset him so run that by him first, and finally, “how would you like this to go Michael?”

The glossy films that came in the wake of The Last Dance, in football, cricket and more, mimic not just the look and tempo but the obeisance in place of what might be called journalism.

Major sporting bodies do the same, setting up in-house publications/sites that produce stories, profiles and (allowed/approved) news. No need to talk to outsider journalists, no need to worry if your preferred angle will take, the public get vision, words and connection, and everyone gets what they want. Easy!

Ok, sure, the standard music doco isn’t doing something as egregiously in denial as that farrago of believable lies, Michael, a film which is to biography as Trump is to probity. But like saying they are still better than the vast bulk of music biographies in print, that is a very low bar to clear.

Could we do better? Not really, no. Not while the means of production are in the hands of the subject and the opiate of manufactured revelation holds such sway. We get what we want and that’s what we deserve. Now, back to rewatching Kylie.