Been busy in the last few weeks, sorting through my deceased mom's things, tying up loose financial and personal ends, so have had zero time to watch any films to review. Consequently I've been rewatching some docs from the last few years.
Mayor of the Sunset Strip is one of them. In my review I write:
'The only moment we don’t pity Rodney is when his pal and film producer, Chris Carter, an ex-rocker from 1980s schlock band Glamorama, gets a similar radio show to Rodney’s on a rival station. Rodney drops the F-bomb and sticks his middle finger at the camera. One senses this moment, which Rodney didn’t want filmed, is perhaps the last gasp of humanity in a man reduced to a dull human patina, lacking the wit of an Andy Warhol to post-modernize his vapidity. George Hickenlooper, a noted documentarian, misses the target in this film. Not because Rodney’s such a cipher, but because even a vacuum has potential energy. What do we know about ourselves or the man when the film ends that we didn’t know within the first few minutes? Celebrity is an obsession that saps the soul. Rodney is Exhibit A- assuming there was anything to sap to begin with, a debatable point.'
In rewatching, the only addendum to my review I might add is that this film is even more sad, for not only is Rodney Bingenheimer a cipher, but the film is, in many ways, utterly pointless. Contrasted to The Kid Stays In The Picture, another doc on fame and its costs, this film does not measure up, even if one does indeed feel badly for Rodney.
Herein the whole film:
