The narrative begins with the Watergate burglary, its connection to the White House, and the revelation of Nixon’s secret tapes–which catalog every conversation that ever took place in his office. As we see a psychologically unraveling Nixon listening to one particular tape, the camera ventures into the heart of the tape recorder–with wheels and gears turning ominously–and we come to understand the real significance of the tapes: More than just evidence, they are a testament to Nixon’s very existence. They are also a formal device the film uses to examine his life and memories.

Erratically traversing time and space, from the present moment to his childhood, political rise, and a complicated retelling of events leading up to Watergate, the first hour two hours of the film are tiresome and sometimes confusing. Evocative of JFK in its visual storytelling, replete with repetitive and, at times, unnecessary and unmotivated changes in film stock and color, the narrative presents a disjointed portrait of Nixon’s early life and career. Because the chronology seems haphazard, and memories triggered for seemingly no important reason other than what I’m guessing is a structural need to present them early in the film, the performances suffer. The film’s style–which was interesting when used in JFK because the story of the assassination is one of conjecture and contradiction–draws attention to itself at the expense of the story and the acting. It’s not until you get into the third hour that Nixon finally begins to live and breathe.

Largely due to Anthony Hopkins’ brilliant performance–at turns powerful, uncompromising and firm, yet simultaneously riddled with self-pity, nostalgia and grave self-doubt–Richard Nixon emerges as a complex, driven but ultimately flawed character. Hopkins, who prepared for his role by watching every available videotape of Nixon’s public speeches repeatedly, has the mannerisms down pat, including the awkward two-armed victory salute. Capturing more than just Nixon’s idiosyncrasies, Hopkins conveys the man’s tortured soul: Though not particularly good looking, athletically talented, or hailing from a privileged family background, Nixon raised himself up out of poverty by the sheer force of his will, the cruel twists of fate, and a calculating amoral ambition. A self-made but ever unpopular president, he constantly compared himself to the ever more popular (and far better looking) John F. Kennedy, wondering why Kennedy seemed to have the public’s adoration practically handed to him on a silver platter, while Nixon received scorn and derision. Deeply patriotic yet borderline megalomaniacal (and some would say sociopathic), he alternates between admiring Abraham Lincoln and callously ignoring a groundswell of public opinion against the Vietnam War, choosing instead to bomb Cambodia and North Vietnam back into the Stone Age for the oxymoronic principle of establishing a “peace with honor.” This is the same man who, driven by hubris, subverts the United States Constitution, yet forges, boldly and singlehandedly, diplomatic ties with Red China and a peace treaty with Russia. It’s a poignant moment in the film when Mao tells Nixon:

You are as evil as I am. We are the new emperors. We are both from poor families and others paid to feed the hunger in us. In my case millions of reactionaries. In your case millions of Vietnamese…The real war is in us. History is a symptom of our disease.

“You are as evil as I am. We are the new emperors. We are both from poor families and others paid to feed the hunger in us. In my case millions of reactionaries. In your case millions of Vietnamese…The real war is in us. History is a symptom of our disease.”

It’s no easy feat to traverse this chasm of contradiction, to make it feel real, to convey the logic of decision through the eyes as it unfolds. It’s no easy task either to condense history and deliver it as truthful fiction, to check your own desire to rail against a man many call a “monster,” to portray instead the deeply flawed human being who stood at the precipice of greatness. For this, both Anthony Hopkins and Oliver Stone, as well as numerous others who labored behind the scenes (writers, editors, advisors, spouses), must be acknowledged.

In the end, the important tape Nixon listens to is one he chooses not to surrender, and is forced instead to grudgingly surrender his presidency. Haughty, unapologetic and secretive, Nixon is portrayed as a strong-willed man blind to his own weaknesses: a victim of his own self-aggrandizing desire for power yet, paradoxically, a cog crushed by the very machinery of power he believes he commands and controls. Protracted as it is, the film manages to convey the complexities of the man, and of the single historic event for which he is largely, though perhaps unfairly, remembered.

So when I discovered Metallica, I found a whole new possibility in music: heavy rhythms, fast tempos, beautiful, expository guitar solos that sang like the human voice, and an aggressive tone matched by the lead singer’s rough, screamy vocals. What I responded to most, however, was an examination of subjects heretofore unimaginable to me in music: insanity, the all-consuming nature of drug abuse, the disposable role of soldiers in war. Unlike some other heavy metal bands I would be exposed to later but did not particularly enjoy, Metallica didn’t sing about death, satanism and twisted things for shock value; they traversed a dark internal landscape while simultaneously decrying the hypocrisy of the status quo they saw on the outside. When their next album …And Justice for All arrived, I listened to it so much I wore out the tape.

Although I grew out of heavy metal by the time I reached college and progressed onto hip-hop, jazz, electronica, and world music, I have always had an appreciation for Metallica’s contribution to music. A few days ago, primarily out of curiosity, I picked up Metallica: Some Kind of Monster, the 2003 documentary about the band. While I had heard positive things about the film around the time it came out, I really wasn’t expecting much. After all, how interesting could Metallica really be? Well, I was pleasantly surprised. Far from being a tour documentary, the film delves into the heart, soul and psyche of the band, taking a closer look at their dysfunction. What stands out is not their drama, but their attitude toward growth, healing, change, and their commitment to the creative process despite its volatility or the obstacles they face.

At the start of the film, Metallica is at a crisis point: they haven’t released an album or toured in five years; their lawsuit against Napster has backfired, resulting in a major fan backlash; bassist Jason Newsted quit the band, citing “private and personal reasons and the physical damage I’ve done to myself over the years playing the music I love”; and the remaining band members’ relationships with one another are literally in the toilet. At the verge of imploding, the bad takes the radical step of hiring a therapist to help them work through their issues. At $40,000 a month, this guy, Phil Towle, is not your ordinary shrink. He specializes in working with big ego and big money people–athletes, coaches and rock stars. Upon his suggestion, the band takes a different approach to creating music for their new album: they start jamming together to find and write songs, and open up the floor for lyrical contribution to everyone. This is quite different from the past, where members were dictated what and when to play by lead singer James Hetfield and drummer Lars Ulrich, the band’s two reigning (and dueling) egos.

As the film progresses, we see the ups and downs of the new creative and therapeutic approach and get to know each of the characters. James Hetfield appears, at first, largely egocentric, controlling, rebellious, and displays fits of bravado and machismo: he drives hot rods and motorbikes, and bails on his family for a few weeks (just as his son turns a year old) to go to Russia to hunt bears. Cranky, prone to throwing fits and slamming doors, he sometimes acts like a big baby. Lars Ulrich, in contrast, is an artist: he’s passionate, articulate, intelligent, in touch with his feelings and emotions and able to express them, and discourses about the process of making art and music by gesturing at a Basquiat hanging in his living room. Kirk Hammett, despite being an insanely talented guitarist, is perhaps the sweetest one of the three: he’s soft-spoken, humble, spiritual, conciliatory and has replaced the “bad things” in his life (drugs and drinking) with surfing.

Together, the three of them, along with their longtime producer Bob Rock (who has been asked to play bass guitar) and their therapist Phil Towle work on their latest album while simultaneously working on their relationships with one another. They try to be more sensitive, learn to choose their words carefully, take criticism (as opposed to the past where no one was allowed to comment on another’s musical contributions), and listen to one another. Things seem to go well and the band, with the exception of James Hetfield, enjoys the new, more democratic process of creativity. James has difficulty adjusting and becomes more cranky, finally storming out of the room in a fit of anger. We find out that he has a substance abuse problem and has checked into a drug rehabilitation program. Since they cannot record without him, the band is left in limbo as the days turn into weeks and then months. Worried that they may effectively be finished, the Lars and Kirk ponder their future.

After a year, James returns and the film takes its most interesting turn. Part of his recovery process requires that James work only four hours a day and spend the rest of his time with his family. This causes some friction with the band because, after a year’s absence, James is still very controlling and does not want them to continue working after he leaves or even listen to anything they’ve already recorded. Interestingly, James, more than Metallica, is forced to renegotiate just about every part of his life, come to terms with his own controlling nature, and recognize how much of it is driven by fears that are rooted in childhood and teenage experiences. Amazingly, for a guy who at the beginning of the film is virtually a heavy metal stereotype, he adapts and changes. The rage and anger is replaced by a much calmer personality that’s now prone to eating grapes rather than guzzling beer. The band too adapts, and the fact that they allow him to change and thus change themselves, is a testament to their openness and maturity. Each individual is affected by the therapy process, and while it’s not all grapes and roses since differences and frictions continue to arise, Metallia is much better equipped to deal with them in a collaborative, considerate manner that helps bring them together as a band once again. In the end, they triumph over the obstacles they faced at the outset, find a new bassist to replace Jason Newsted (Robert Trujillo formerly of Suicidal Tendencies), release a new album entitled St. Anger, and are inducted as music Icons by MTV. We, as viewers and (lapsed) fans, are left with the feeling that they still have a very promising career ahead of them and many more albums to record.

Although as a spectator I was pleasantly surprised and really enjoyed the film, as a filmmaker and storyteller I was disappointed, at times, by what was left out. For a film shot over a two year period with over 1000 hours of footage, more insight could have been given into the backgrounds of Lars Ulrich and Kirk Hammett. For instance, during one part of the film, we see an interaction between Lars and his father, and see how much Lars values his father’s opinion about Metallica’s music. But we don’t understand why. Is it simply a son seeking his father’s approval? Or is there something more? Doing some research afterwards, I found out that Lars’ father, Torben Ulrich, was a musician who played jazz with such acclaimed figures as Dexter Gordon (who happens to be Lars’ godfather), Stan Getz and Miles Davis. Torben was also an established tennis pro and Lars a tennis prodigy who came to the United States as a teenager to pursue further training before turning to music. These are interesting facts that add color and depth to both Lars and his father, especially since the latter discourses at one point about Metallica’s musical lineage and influences, and gives Lars a harsh critique of a new song. If I uncovered these facts in two minutes on Wikipedia, surely they must have come up in the two years that the filmmakers spent with Metallica. Perhaps they were excluded in favor of plot and story points, but the result, I feel, missed an opportunity to provide greater depth into some very compelling characters.