That’s the setup for writer-director David M. Rosenthal’s “Janie Jones” — “just like the Clash song!”, as one of Ethan’s bandmates says brightly — which may bear a general resemblance to other indie dramas about screwed-up parenting or the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, but is very much its own sharp and funny creation. Maybe it won’t hurt “Janie Jones” too much that it hits less than a year after Sofia Coppola’s “Somewhere,” in which Elle Fanning’s deadbeat dad was Stephen Dorff’s soulless movie star, given that nobody went to see that. If the emotional music of Rosenthal’s film seems familiar, as Ethan’s relationship with Janie moves from utter denial to grudging acceptance to a strange dependence, the movie works because it’s essentially an old-fashioned two-hander for a couple of subtle and terrific actors.

At first Ethan claims that he can’t possibly have a kid, and only takes Janie under significant duress from an Arkansas cop, who is otherwise going to summon family services and order a paternity test. At the same time, you see him sizing Janie up, a troubled expression moving across his messed-up, pretty-boy face. (I think Nivola is just too snaky and intelligent-looking to be a movie star, despite his abundant talent; he’s like Bradley Cooper for nihilists.) Looking at her, Ethan sees an alternate existence as a dad, husband and reasonable adult that he completely missed, and is forced to confront the usually rhetorical question of what the point of it all was in highly concrete form.

As for Breslin, she redeems the slightly underwritten role of Janie, who’s already had to grow up too fast and is meeting her supposedly famous father just in time to watch his career hit the rocks. From almost the moment they meet, it’s Janie’s shy, resilient toughness that sustains Ethan, rather than the other way around. Her prickly humor and refusal to be wounded are what convince him, more than anything else, that she must he his daughter. She rescues him from an ass-kicking in a biker bar, joins him on stage after he’s driven his entire band away, and gives him a hard time about flirting with “the cougars of the Plains states.” (Ethan, offended: “They weren’t cougars!” Janie: “Oh, yes they were!”) Janie also proves to be an asset, in the most literal way possible, during Ethan’s tense reunion with his estranged mother, a Chicago society woman named Lily (another terrific cameo, this one from Frances Fisher).

Nivola and Breslin perform their own songs creditably, both separately and together, and “Janie Jones” depicts the actual tedium of a grade-B rock tour as no movie has since Bruce McDonald’s justly legendary “Hard Core Logo.” Coming up with the right balance of redemption and realism to conclude this improbable father-daughter fable was always going to be tough, and Rosenthal’s ending feels a bit too contrived for these immensely convincing, human, damaged characters. That aside, “Janie Jones” is a compelling and unpretentious indie built around two wonderfully layered performances and straightforward storytelling. Give it a listen.

“Janie Jones” is now playing in New York and Seattle, and opens Nov. 4 in Los Angeles, with other cities to follow. It’s also available on-demand from many cable and satellite providers.

The Aretha Franklin tribute

Paying R-E-S-P-E-C-T to the Queen of Soul, who is recovering from cancer, Christina Aguilera, Jennifer Hudson, Florence Welch, Yolanda Adams and Martina McBride belted out a medley of her biggest hits like it was VH1 Divas night — and this time it was not a competition. (If it had been, Welch assuredly would not have won.) It was a typically Grammy-like mix of the stodgy and the trying-to-be-relevant, notable mostly because Aguilera redemptively remembered all the words she’d been obliged to sing. And when diamond-encrusted Aretha herself appeared via video to express regret she couldn’t attend in person with an uncharacteristically humble, “Next year, OK?” it felt like the show was ghoulishly exploiting the possibility that she might not.

Lady Gaga

You can just imagine the agony of Grammy organizers figuring out how to introduce Gaga’s brand-new, determined-to-be-the-gay-national-anthem single “Born This Way.” Damnit, she sang with Elton John last year; what other openly homosexual, flamboyant people in the music business are there? Cue Ricky Martin, speaking of “a song about loving who you love and being who you are.” Emerging like a butterfly or member of Spinal Tap from her cocoon, Gaga whipped Madonna’s Blonde Ambition-era ponytail back and forth, jutted out her artificially pointy shoulders, and at one point played an organ festooned with heads. It was theatrical, absurd and derivative. It was also a rousing, infectious statement of solidarity and pride.

Mumford and Sons, Avett Brothers and Bob Dylan

Mumford and Sons’ rollicking, joyous rendition of “The Cave” could make a temporary believer out of even a Bieber fan, and as just half of the one-two punch that included the Avett Brothers’ fierce “Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise,” it seemed even more luminous. That Dylan then trotted out for a dry, statesman-like rendering of “Maggie’s Farm” would have been superfluous were it not for the clearly psyched accompanying growlings from the two obviously thrilled younger bands. 

211213212512


Uploaded by yardie4lifever2. – Explore international webcam videos.

Eminem

Reprising his oil-and-water VMA duet of “Love the Way You Lie” right down to the folded arms, Eminem seemed ablaze in contrast to Rihanna’s yodely cool. But when Dr. Dre showed up to parry with him for “I Need a Doctor,” the two old pals bounced ferocious energy off each other in the evening’s most riveting moment. No wonder Eminem looked genuinely stunned when he later won for ‘The Recovery” — he was probably still coming down from all the adrenaline he and Dre were radiating.

Bruno Mars, B.o.B., and Janelle Monae

In a decidedly retro-themed evening, the powerful trinity managed at once to be old school and exuberantly bright young things. Backed by a lush string section, Mars’ and B.o.B.’s “Nothin’ on You” proved itself even more so to be one of the most sweetly, sincerely romantic ballads to come along in years. (And it will likely long hold the title of greatest love song to include a reference to paying taxes, ever.) Going old school to the point of black and white for Mars’ “Grenade” and finally busting full out for Monae’s crowd-surfing rendition of “Cold War,” it was a soulfully show-stopping extravaganza. Bonus points for B.o.B.’s monocle.

2112132494


Uploaded by yardie4lifever2. – Explore international webcam videos.

Muse

Not that their freaky, destroy the banks or money or whatever that mini riot of a performance of “Uprising” was about didn’t have its charms. But the real highlight Muse brought to the evening came soon after, during their acceptance speech for best rock album, when Matt Bellamay gave a shout-out to his “beautiful pregnant girlfriend.” Congratulations on fertilizing Kate Hudson, dude. All this and a Grammy too.

Muse – Uprising: 2011 Grammy’s


Uploaded by Viperous_Fox. – Watch more music videos, in HD!

Cee Lo Green, Gwyneth Paltrow and some Muppets

Belting out what would for the rest of the evening be referred to by presenters as ‘The song otherwise known as ‘Forget You,’” Green, dressed as Elton John at the height of his “Muppet Show” giant turkey/knight in shining armor-era, transformed his anthem to bitterness into something “Yo Gabba Gabba”-level warm and cuddly. Adding to the oddness was the slinky, “Glee”-reprising Queen of Goop, who shimmied in the discarded, feathery remnants of Green’s costume and solidified her place as the luckiest non-singer to ever sing at the Grammys. Absurd as the whole thing was, damned if Paltrow and Green didn’t look as if they were having an absolute hoot. Rock ‘n’ roll? No. A shamelessly, awesomely wacko version of a gloriously profane ditty? That was clear from the moment the two bleated “Whyyyyyyyyy?” into each other’s faces.

Cee Lo Green, Gwyneth Paltrow- Fck You (Live Grammy Awards)


Uploaded by wonderful-life1989. – Explore more music videos.

Mick Jagger

Sure, haters gonna hate. But paying tribute to the late “Mr. Solomon Burke” on “Everybody Needs Somebody to Love” and strutting around like a man one-fifth his age, the 67-year-old Jagger was as pouty, as whippet-sleek, as inexhaustible and as shiny as ever. Vocally on his game, Jagger was enough to wake up the show and remind five decades’ worth of Stones fans why this man is the dictionary definition of “rock star.” And if you doubt that an elder showing that much pure chutzpah is no mean feat, you need only have waited a few moments to endure the legendary Barbra Streisand’s brutally flat rendering of “Evergreen” just minutes later.

John Mayer, Norah Jones and Keith Urban

Honoring new Grammy Hall of Fame inductee Dolly Parton, the trio did a stripped-down version of Parton’s achingly lovely “Jolene.” When did the white-clad, shaggy-haired Mayer morph into Johnny Depp? It’s a mystery for the ages. But the quiet surprise of the trio’s performance was a standout in an evening of pyrotechnics and robotic choreography.

Arcade Fire

In a sweaty, stadium-worthy performance of “‘Month of May,” Arcade Fire rocked their hearts out while a troupe of bike-riding ersatz-hooligans broadcast the action on their helmet cameras. It was far from their most powerful performance, a showing so earnestly serious it verged on silly. But, moments before they would win for album of the year, the Canadian band’s first time out at the Grammys marked a transformation that trumped even Gaga’s chrysalis act. By the time they closed out the awards with “Ready to Start,” radiant with victory for album of the year, they had officially crossed over from that lush, moody group you play in your bedroom to Springsteen and U2 territory. And as the credits rolled, America was now gazing on the biggest band in the world. 

Here’s what I wrote about “Nowhere Boy” last January after attending the film’s Sundance premiere, with the celebrated couple in attendance. (I’ve made some edits for clarity and context.)

There is no more mythologized figure in the history of pop culture than John Lennon, unless it’s Lennon’s teenage idol, Elvis Presley. So I wasn’t even sure I wanted to bother with Sam Taylor-Wood’s “Nowhere Boy,” a retelling of Lennon’s late teen years in Liverpool, just before the creation of the Beatles. I’m glad I did. Aaron Johnson’s hulking, almost loutish performance as the angry young Liverpudlian may displease some Lennon-worshipers, but the movie is an elegantly rendered surprise. This is a classic British family melodrama, anchored by one of the subtlest, richest roles in Kristin Scott Thomas’ impressive career.

Johnson plays the 17-year-old Lennon as a boiling pit of anger and yearning. He’s almost desperate for approval and affection (and convinced of his own genius) but covers that most of the time with a mask of sardonic, often cutting humor. “Why didn’t God make me Elvis?” he jokes to his party-girl mother, Julia (a lovely, vulnerable performance from Anne-Marie Duff). “I’ll get the bastard back for that.”

Julia’s answer — “He was saving you for John Lennon!” — reads on the page too much like movie dialogue, but Duff pulls it off. Matt Greenhalgh’s adept and concise screenplay, based on a memoir by Lennon’s half-sister, Julia Baird, generally avoids such pseudo-prophetic moments. (Greenhalgh also wrote “Control,” Anton Corbijn’s film about a doomed rock icon from a different era, Joy Division singer Ian Curtis.)

If this Lennon seems like an arrogant little shit, sometimes irresistible but often insufferable, Johnson and the filmmakers have based that characterization largely on Lennon’s own reflections, particularly in post-Beatles interviews. More broadly, this Lennon is an almost archetypal angry young man or rebel schoolboy of British Isles fiction and drama, a Liverpool cousin of Stephen Dedalus or the kids in Lindsay Anderson’s films, dreaming of escape from his strangled, provincial environment.

But as I mentioned earlier, “Nowhere Boy” isn’t just about aspiring rock god John Lennon, and how he meets a couple of guitar-playing schoolmates named Paul (Thomas Sangster) and George (Sam Bell) and starts a skiffle band called the Quarrymen. Those things happen in the film, and Sangster is wonderful in limited screen time, playing 15-year-old McCartney as an angel-faced, serious-minded prodigy. “You don’t seem much like a rock ‘n’ roll guy,” John taunts him. “Why?” asks Paul. “Because I don’t run around smashing things up and acting like a dick?”

That stuff is essentially context for the film’s central drama, the three-way, push-pull relationship between John, his damaged and flighty mother, and his redoubtable Aunt Mimi (Scott Thomas), who raised John after both his parents abandoned him at age 5. Mimi is a fortress of middle-class English propriety against the heavily Irish, heavily working-class landscape of Liverpool. She refuses to grieve after her beloved husband dies (“It’s just the two of us now, so let’s get on with it,” she tells John), runs a rigorous household of proper teatimes and dinnertimes and is of course predictably suspicious of John’s rock ‘n’ roll dreams. You watch Scott Thomas as Aunt Mimi and as the deranged French housewife in the recent “Leaving,” and she barely seems like the same person; I’m not sure there’s another living actress with this breadth and range.

“Nowhere Boy” is less concerned with a boy’s first steps toward stardom than with his first steps toward emotional maturity, and those lessons are all provided by Mimi, not by John’s irresistible, unstable and profoundly unreliable mother. Julia takes him on day trips to Blackpool, dances with him to Screamin’ Jay Hawkins records, showers him with borderline-inappropriate affection and then disappears, both emotionally and actually. Mimi, on the other hand, put in the hard work of preparing a brilliant but deeply wounded child for the heavy lifting of manhood — and the film makes a strong case that without her influence John Lennon would never have become John Lennon. Scott Thomas’ delicate, ferocious performance captures a woman quietly at war with herself, who begins to realize that her vision of respectability may not fit the remarkable young man in her care.

A packed house of Sundance civilians and celebrities, including Elton John, gave “Nowhere Boy” an extended ovation, and then sat reverently while Taylor-Wood delivered droll anecdotes about her phone conversations with Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, who both, slowly and incrementally, gave the film their blessing. “I’d be shopping in the supermarket and, oh my God, it’s Paul — Sir Paul! — on the phone,” she told us. “He’d just give me some little tidbit, something he remembered about John or about Mimi, and then he’d hang up.”

“Nowhere Boy” is now playing in New York and Los Angeles, with wider national release to follow.

Her new memoir, “Lips Unsealed,” talks about drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, of course, but it also touches on more recent challenges — the failure of her latest albums to crack the U.S. charts (“A Woman and a Man,” “Voila”), as well as raising her son while digging through feelings of self-loathing and supporting him after he came out. Salon called Carlisle to talk about lying in the spotlight, being airbrushed by Playboy, and why music sucks today.

One of the big surprises of this book is how long your problems with drugs lasted — you only became sober in 2005. What was it like to hide that?

It was horrible. I never said I didn’t drink in interviews, but people assumed that I didn’t and I wouldn’t correct them. I just let it go. I never said that I don’t do anything, I just didn’t tell the whole truth. Towards the end, when it was obvious there was something wrong, it was really shameful. There was one point five or six years into my so-called sobriety that I would just say that I was applying the 12 steps to my life, because I knew I couldn’t say that I was sober. It was such a blatant lie. It was embarrassing.

Why did you decide to confess all that in your memoir now?

I just thought it was time. I felt at this point I had the time to do it, and I had this sort of clarity to take a look back and write a book that’s not just a rock ‘n’ roll dirty laundry story — though of course there has to be a little bit of that. I wanted to write more of an inspirational book about how one can make changes late in life, and about how it’s possible to overcome abuse, addiction and self-sabotage. I’ve been through it all.

I noticed a strain of what might be called mysticism in your book. You talk about a ghost, a black bird that’s an omen, and being drawn toward black magic when you were younger. What are your feelings about spirituality?

I was forced to go to church when I was young. I didn’t buy the whole Bible thing. To me, that didn’t make any sense at all. Even when I was a really little girl, about 7 or 8, I would just kind of roll my eyes. But at the same time, in even the darkest moments, I knew there had to be something. When I turned 40 I started exploring that. When I finally did get sober, I made a list of 20 ways I had been protected in my life and that just nailed it. I looked at it and realized there was no reason I should be alive right now. There are too many weird little things that have happened in my life. I have my version of what my god is. I know it’s not conventional; I take a little bit of everything and mix it all together. It’s an important part of my life, and actually always was, I just never realized it.

Drugs led you down some unusual alleyways. What was the scariest situation you found yourself in?

Oh, god. My encounter with the coke dealers in Brazil was pretty wild. I was in Brazil looking for coke. I was so out of control, I don’t even really remember the fine details. All I know is that I met a very prominent politician’s daughter who pointed me in the direction of a guy I could get blow from. And then I ended up in what was basically a drug mill at a penthouse apartment overlooking Ipanema Beach at 2 in the afternoon. It was so hardcore, there were guns everywhere. It’s amazing that I’m not dead, honestly.

How did your son react to the book?

He loved it. When I go to [AA] meetings I bring him because I want him to know about the nature of the illness. So he wasn’t that surprised. I mean some of the stuff he was kind of like “Wow!” But he can handle it. In some ways, he’s more mature than me.

You posed for Playboy a couple of years ago and were surprised when you saw how much they had airbrushed you. What was it like to get those photos back?

I was bummed out. I think the originals looked better than the airbrushed versions. Some of them were real and some of them were just ridiculous. I remember a friend looking at one of the pictures of me and saying, “God, I wish I had a butt like that!” and I said, “Me too!” [Laughs]. I don’t know where they got it. It was a great experience, but the result could have been better. I remember reading a letter that got sent to the magazine that said something like, “I bought this Playboy hoping to see a beautiful, voluptuous woman and all I got was a character out of Shrek.” I thought that was hysterical.

The Go-Go’s began in the L.A. punk scene, but now you’re thought of mostly as a pop group. How do you feel about that legacy?

I think a lot of people don’t know the origins of the Go-Go’s. They assume that it’s like a Spice Girls thing that’s been put together by some Svengali. But it started with five of us kids sitting on a curb having no idea how to do anything, no musical experience or training, not even knowing how to plug guitars into amplifiers. And we went from that to becoming the biggest band in America two and a half years later. People think of the Go-Go’s as the girl group that sang silly little pop songs, but really, if you delve into the lyrics, a lot it is very dark. I’m really proud of the punk background. If it wasn’t for the punk scene, the Go-Go’s would never have existed. I would never have existed.

Today, there’s no outlet for kids. With the punk thing, anybody could be in a band and be terrible. You could not know how to play music and stand there onstage and get shows. If you improved as you went along, that was great. If you didn’t improve, that was great. These days, a band like the Go-Go’s couldn’t exist because we wouldn’t have any outlet to be seen or heard or learn as we went along. We wouldn’t have the avenues to do any of that.

You encountered a lot of resistance from the punk scene when the Go-Go’s started getting big. How did you respond to those accusations of selling out?

All of us were affected by not being able to go home again. We weren’t able to fit in after we came home from these tours, or at least I certainly wasn’t. You could never admit in that scene that you wanted to be successful, that you wanted to make lots of money and be a rock star because it wasn’t cool. That’s one of the reasons why Margot [Olaverra], the girl who Kathy Valentine replaced, didn’t work in the band because she wanted to stay true to the punk roots and really, we just wanted to be successful.

The Go-Go’s kicked down a lot of doors for women musicians. Do you see any glimmers of that spirit in any bands today?

No, I don’t. I don’t dig through record stores anymore. There may well be people I don’t know about. But I think in the climate of music today, in the age of “American Idol,” music now tends to be more about marketing rather than artistry. There is some amazing stuff, but for the most part I think we need a new punk rock revolution. We need something to shake everything on its head. Right now everything is sterile, it’s really stagnant. The stuff that you get fed in the mainstream is pretty much horrible.

Margaret Eby is a frequent contributor to Salon. Her work has appeared in Bookforum, Interview Magazine, and the New York Times Local blog, among other publications. She lives in New York.

But “Exile’s” sonic polish is small potatoes compared to what awaits on the DVD available only with the album’s “super deluxe” (and super expensive) edition. Sandwiched in between excerpts from Steven Kijak’s making-of documentary, which screened at Cannes this week, and a pair of clips from Hal Ashby’s concert doc, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Rolling Stones,” is 11 minutes from Robert Frank’s legendary and elusive “Cocksucker Blues,” the quasi-documentary that the Stones have effectively suppressed for nearly four decades. Owing to ongoing legal difficulties, the rest of “Cocksucker Blues” is unlikely to see legitimate release, but many of those who’ve seen it regard it as one of the greatest rock movies ever made.

The Stones hired Frank, the still photographer best known for the stark monograph “The Americans,” to document the run-up to “Exile’s” 1972 release and the accompanying tour, the band’s first U.S. jaunt since their disastrous free concert at Altamont Speedway, a would-be Woodstock where a man was fatally stabbed in the middle of “Under My Thumb.” After holing up in the basement of Richards’ chateau in the south of France, where much of “Exile” was recorded, they were ready to meet their American public again, and they wanted Frank along for the ride.

It’s hard to know what the Stones expected from Frank, whose previous films, including the Beat landmark “Pull My Daisy” (1959), showed little interest in conventional narrative of either the fiction or nonfiction variety. (At one point, Frank theorized he was chosen because his friend Danny Seymour, who appears in the film, was adept at procuring hard drugs, which made him a valuable commodity in the Stones’ circle.) In any case, the Stones didn’t like what they saw — or at the very least considered it unwise to release. According to one account, Jagger told Frank he liked the film but worried that “if it shows in America, we’ll never be allowed in the country again.” The band successfully sued to prevent the release of “Cocksucker Blues,” with showings limited to those at which Frank was physically present (a requirement that has been slightly loosened in recent years as the 85-year-old Frank’s ability to travel has been curtailed). Video was verboten as well, of course, although VHS bootlegs and now Internet downloads have always been within the reach of the curious and determined. It’s also made appearances on various streaming video sites, although its tenure is inevitably short-lived.

“Cocksucker Blues” is infamous for its scenes of debauchery, like an incipient orgy on the Stones’ private plane where women shriek as their shirts are pulled off and Jagger and Richards bang instruments like a satanic house band. (Carefully edited snippets appear on the “Exile” DVD, although the Glimmer Twins now seem to preside over a mild outbreak of tickle fighting.) But such spectacles would hardly have damaged the reputation of a band whose image was based in excess. And besides, the Stones are absent for many of the movie’s most notorious scenes, including those in which unidentified hangers-on stick needles in their arm and a sperm-spattered naked woman sprawls on a hotel bed and fingers her crotch in postcoital reverie.

What was perhaps more damaging — and, to the outside observer, most intriguing — is just how dull the life of the world’s biggest rock ‘n’ roll band could be. At times, Frank goes out of his way to portray the drudgery of life on the road, as when he intercuts footage of a couple shooting up in a hotel room with scenes of Keith Richards quietly playing cards. In one sublime sequence, included on the “Exile” DVD, a lugubrious Richards makes a slurred and unsuccessful attempt to order a bowl of fruit from a woman in a Southern hotel.

KEITH RICHARDS: Do you have any fresh fruit?

ROOM SERVICE: Well, like strawberries or blueberries?

KR: Strawberries and blueberries.

RS: How many orders?

KR: Would you send up, like, a bowl?

RS: Oh, no. It goes by the order.

KR: That’s very comp … Why don’t you just make a nice selection of fruit and send it up. You know, use your own discretion.

RS: Well, look, you’ve got two melon. Will I send you one order of strawberries and one order of blueberries, then?

KR: Have you got a … What about an apple?

RS: Apple? Well, I can get you an apple, yes.

KR: Can you get us, like, three apples?

RS: [Pause] Just a minute, please.

There’s concert footage as well, much of it astonishing; many fans regard the 1972 tour as the Stones’ finest hour. It’s a shame the “Exile” DVD only shows us the second half of their duet with Stevie Wonder, who toured as their opening act, picking up with “Satisfaction” but omitting the segue out of Wonder’s “Uptight (Everything’s Alright).” But the vividly colored stage performances only heighten the dolorous feel of the black-and-white behind-the-scenes footage. In his novel “Underworld,” whose third section is named for the film, Don DeLillo described it thus: “The camera phalanx in the tunnels. People sitting around, two people asleep in a lump or tripped out or they could be unnoticeably dead, the endless noisy boredom of the tour — tunnels and runways.”

The torpid tenor of “Cocksucker Blues” is in marked contrast to the antic frenzy of “Charlie Is My Darling,” Peter Whitehead’s documentary of the Stones’ 1965 Irish tour, which has also never been released on video in its entirety. “Charlie,” which turns up on YouTube from time to time, is a far more lighthearted affair, somewhere between the Beatlemaniac antics of “A Hard Day’s Night” and the arm’s-length vérité of Wolf Koenig and Roman Kroiter’s “Lonely Boy,” their sociological portrait of a young Paul Anka. Scoring his footage with marching-band arrangements of the Stones’ greatest hits, Whitehead’s tone is gently mocking but also genuinely fascinated, particularly by the band’s cross-generational appeal. Eager grannies and self-serious undergrads turn out to see them as well as frenzied teenagers, whose fervor sometimes puts them in physical jeopardy. The film shows fans rushing the stage and jumping on various band members, and one unlucky woman being carried out on a stretcher.

Given that “Charlie” has been released on DVD, but with all the songs edited out, the likely culprit for its unavailability is the thorny subject of music rights, the same factor that kept Robert Altman’s “California Split” and Monte Hellman’s “Two-Lane Blacktop” off the shelf for years. But by the time of “Cocksucker Blues,” the Stones owned everything with their name on it, including their songs and the film itself. The quality of the excerpts on the “Exile” DVD obliterates the equivalent sequences in bootleg copies, suggesting that a decent print and a digital transfer of at least sections of it are somewhere in the vaults. It’s unlikely, almost unthinkable, that the entire movie will ever see proper release, and perhaps that’s as it should be. “Cocksucker Blues” makes sense as samizdat, a blurry, blue-tinged artifact passed from one person to the next, surfacing briefly on one website or other but always being taken down, shoved back underground. But then, as Jagger sings on “Exile’s” first song, “The sunshine bores the daylights out of me.”