Robbie Williams is not wearing pants. Sitting cross-legged on his bed in his Los Angeles mansion, the pop star looks back on his past on a dusty laptop: a stream of behind-the-scenes archive footage ranging from Take That fan frenzy to popular super-tours from his solo era to his painful departure from the heart of the zeitgeist. It's not clear why he needs to do this in pants.
Is it meant to be a metaphor for the intimate and limitless nature of this documentary series? A nod to the fact that this is Robbie: candid and unfiltered? Or maybe it's just a sign that Williams is a born exhibitionist (as if we needed another one).
Stars: Thai Long Ly, Robbie Williams
Whatever the reason, the underwear can't help but underline the onanistic vibe. It's primarily Williams in the footage, his only other main character being his on-again, off-again songwriting partner Guy Chambers (who filmed most of it). And except for a brief appearance by his wife, Ayda Field, there are no other talking heads either. This is Williams on Williams: a four-hour, claustrophobic, navel-gazing monologue, delivered by Robbie in the past and present, describing the depression, anxiety and addiction that accompanied his superstardom and have seemingly characterized his entire his life.
Well, maybe not his entire life. The documentary, directed by Joe Pearlman (Lewis Capaldi: How I Feel Now), takes action with Take That: “The most popular British group since the Beatles!” says Cilla Black, during the opening flash of amusing retro television footage, providing no information about Williams' childhood. Before Ayda, her romantic life is also mired in ambiguity: there are many images of a vacation in 2000 with Geri Halliwell, but it is never clear if they are actually a couple.
Instead, we get an unvarnished tour through Williams' whiplash-inducing career. He leaves Take That in a rage at golden boy Gary Barlow, then goes on a year-long bender (“I was in Groucho doing a lot of coke”). His solo comeback, partnered with Chambers, initially fails before going stratospheric. He then he's in superstar territory for a solid decade, before developing crippling anxiety. He stops acting, relapses badly, meets Ayda, gets clean, reunites with Take That, has children and finally resumes his career as a still hugely successful artist.
It is impossible not to compare Robbie Williams with the other Netflix documentary about a British icon released a few weeks ago. Born just over a year apart, Williams and David Beckham were working-class English boys who struggled at school before becoming teen stars and then, here at least, colossal and traumatically famous, pursued with malicious glee by a media dangerously rampant sensationalism. In their overlapping heydays, these men were the culture. In their crystallizations of late-90s Britishness, they remain powerful vectors of millennial nostalgia.
But the differences are much more marked. Beckham is taciturn to a fault; Williams is a cheerful talker with a dizzyingly quick wit (did you miss his true calling as a comedian? He Argues). Beckham is driven by an elemental love for his sport; Williams never seems to enjoy his music much. The documentaries themselves are also worlds apart. Beckham is a PR portrait of the footballer's legendary status and a fun, entertaining trip down memory lane, featuring plenty of big-name interviewees and entertaining archive footage. Robbie Williams is the complete opposite: an oppressive, masochistic binge-watcher of low pasts who shies away from the professional triumphs of his subject (this millennial will always love Rock DJ, okay?).
That could be because the celebration is at odds with these on-screen memories of misery. Williams is clearly in bad shape; It's horrible to see his panic attacks on stage. He doesn't like his own material, craves indie cool rather than pop ubiquity ("I want to write Karma Police, I'm writing Karma Chameleon"), and his general unhappiness often presents itself as belligerence, moodiness, and an inclination to direct that razor. his biting tongue towards his colleagues and, most amusingly, towards the press (Journalist: “What would you be if you weren't a musician?” Williams, totally deadpan: “A pig farmer”).
There is no escape route: the film suggests that it was the shock of Take That's success that triggered Williams' trauma, but it is the only way for him to return (and the only way to get revenge on Barlow, he tells his daughter of 10 years).
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