There are mysteries in life. How this pudgy, vacant-eyed, misogynist, virtually talentless Swede became a rap icon is one of them. While I can't in good conscience recommend this film to anyone of even room temperature IQ, I am happy to tell you that the feeling when it ends is similar to that moment when you stop hitting yourself over the head with a steel mallet. So there's that. The film also has a great deal of filler footage to help you while away the time -- trees seen from the window of a moving car, out-of-focus hand-held shots (make that interminable out-of-focus hand-held shots) of things like scraggly glassy-eyed musicians trying to stand upright, stupefied, wobbly fans enjoying music that sounds more appropriate for extracting CIA terrorist confessions, psychedelic images that make the lava lamps of days gone by seem fascinating. I could go on but what's the point really? Eventually, indiscriminate use of drugs catches up with the enterprise -- whoa, imagine that! Then the tone of the documentary changes from naked worship of a genre-busting genius... to a caring, compassionate portrait of a troubled soul with... bipolar disorder! So you've really got the trifecta of terrible documentaries here, folks - a boring subject, crappy music, and editing designed to stretch a 5-minute cautionary tale into 90 minutes of total misery.
Review of Yung Lean: In My Head
