Metallica: Some Kind of Monster

In 2001, the most successful Metal outfit of all time are teetering on the brink of a creative and personal s**tpit. Longtime bassist Jason Newstead has just quit, relations between the band are at an all-time low and, under pressure to deliver their first studio album of original material in years, 'St. Anger', the group have hired a therapist to help pull their plectrums out of their asses. What better time – or what worse – to invite the cameras round? For the next three years? Therapy, one feels, has gone to their heads. Even if you loathe Heavy Metal (especially if you loathe Heavy Metal) there's loads to enjoy here: from Oasis to Spinal Tap, everyone loves rock stars having a ruck, and Metallica rarely disappoint. Wince! As drummer Lars screams in singer James' face ('All these rules?! This is supposed to be a rock 'n' roll; band!!'). Gape! As they ponder whether 'guitar solos are outdated'. Boggle! As Lars' funky Danish dad Torben, resplendent in a long white beard and druid's staff, like something out of Tolkien, informs his son that their new music 'doesn't cut it'. Guffaw! As their therapist, resplendent in an ever-expanding range of lurid pullovers (so that's where his massive salary's going) nods politely along throughout, like a disco dad.