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BY JOHN GRAHAM
The Decline
of Western Civilization Part III |
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Perhaps you read the WW cover story on gutter punks (Sept. 11, 1996). Undoubtedly you've seen the multihued mohawks and heard the clatter of chains and jewelry. Maybe you've even talked to one while you fished about your pockets for change, but it's unlikely you've gotten to know any; these kids seem to hate everything--society, cops, life in general--so why should you care about them? Because, as The Decline of Western Civilization Part III illustrates, most are harmless, homeless and--they'd hate this word--victims. This documentary by Penelope Spheeris (Wayne's World, Black Sheep) is an unblinking, unglamorized survey of Hollywood youth who have been shoved out of the the ordinary world and who shove back by dressing in spiky tatters and drinking until they pass out. They don't live for anything--they just live, period. If they died, that'd be okay, too. If shown as part of a double bill with Kids, Decline, with its psychologically and physiologically scarred teens, would undoubtedly get the Promise Keepers fired into a family-values frenzy about the disintegration of American society. "I was an abortion that couldn't get paid for," says one liberty-spiked youngster. "Hi, Mom! Thanks for making me an alcoholic. I love you," scoffs another. "I don't think anyone could hurt me anymore...I've been hurt enough," adds a third. Their only solution to abusive parents and pointless, robotic conformity is to hit the sidewalks and hit the bottle. There's little thought of tomorrow or the day after, Johnny Rotten's "no future" mantra seeming more prescient than paranoid. Stylistically, Decline III duplicates the original 1979 film, with hand-cam shots of chaotic concerts interspersed with interviews and life-on-the-street footage. However, where the first installment illuminated the personalities birthing a new musical form, here we only meet two bands, Naked Aggression (whose members prove that not all punk rockers are musical illiterates) and the Resistance. The other bands given starring-role status, Final Warning and Litmus Green, are limited to a few screen moments of frenetic thrashing. The remainder of the film is given to street punx like Squid, Why-Me? and Filth. We see them cry, drink, laugh, drink, puke and drink some more. They wear T-shirts emblazoned with logos of politically charged anarcho-punk bands such as Dead Kennedys, Crass and Conflict--all of them defunct--but none of these kids has any such convictions. (You may find yourself unknowingly echoing the sentiments of Connecticut band the Pist: "When did anarchy mean getting drunk and acting like a jerk?") Yet when the value of life is the price of a beer and the real world seems farther from Hollywood than Hanoi, lacking political beliefs isn't a chastisable offense. Like their desperate adherence to punk's fashion history, it's merely sad. It's sadder still when the film reel runs out: Many leaving the theater will mourn the lives of the youths onscreen while moaning in annoyance the next time they're asked for spare change. Maybe that's why Western civilization never seems to go anywhere but down. In the meantime, Decline III serves well as a tour guide through the gutters of society (sorry, leather jacket not included).
originally published August 26, 1998 |
