Duran Duran, Three To Get Ready

Still, they show some strain. They sit through endless champagne-soaked luncheon meetings at the Capitol Building in Los Angeles, listening to the somewhat lead-headed nattering of label executives more concerned with demographics and the bottom line. Nick listens closely, slotting information into his mental files, remembering everything, never letting his ego get in the way of exploring all the parameters. John makes a case for the musicianship of the group to the record label, like they care. They want more massive singles, more merchandising, another huge tour, but they have their doubts and their legal worries. The record label isn’t sure Duran Duran can pull it off; what kind of band are they, anyway? Are they a group for teenyboppers, or the benumbed listeners of Adult Contemporary radio?

Nick Rhodes is not bothered. He’s icy cool in Armani, always listening. John Taylor is defiantly eager to prove the worth of the group, to prove that they are musicians. Simon seems a bit befuddled on champers. Who can blame him? He’s fairly newly married to supermodel Yasmin Parveneh, which means he’s really made it; he gets to enjoy life from now on. Doesn’t he?

Image from Calling Planet Earth

Not as such. The documentary shows meetings with lawyers trying to untangle various lawsuits brought up by Andy Taylor’s lawyers, exhausting and endless rehearsals, and the threesome grudgingly doing stomach crunches next to a pool somewhere, aware of just how physically taxing a tour can be, and that they aren’t kids anymore.

The strain shows on John; he’s dropping f-bombs like it’s going out of style, vibrating with impatience against record label stooges who give less of a shit about music than units shifted. John is visibly disgusted by this viewpoint, even as he sees the truth of the business. Rhodes is only amused, taking it all in, learning the vulnerabilities and opportunities. He may not be the leader of the operation (at least, not yet), but he is clearly the brains. John would be, but he’s too emotional. Oddly enough, he thinks too much. The music means so much to him that he’s unable to play the game; he knows his ability so keenly, and is such a working-class creature of pride, that he doesn’t care to beg for the top slot on the charts. (It wouldn’t happen again for another seven years, in 1993 with “Ordinary World.”)

This isn’t a depressing documentary, only a sobering one. By 1986, Duran Duran reached adulthood at last, and it’s as painful for them as it is for anyone, probably more so, with so much money and prestige at stake. Despite being the youngest, Nick is the most grown-up, accepting early hours, staying sober almost all the time when John and Simon are almost too far off their faces to do commercial promos for Night Tracks. Those druggies! And yet, they rock out in the rehearsal studio, laying down hot, tight, funky, sharp renditions of “Notorious,” “Skin Trade,” “Vertigo,” and a badly mis-marketed Miami Sound Machine-esque version of “Meet El Presidente.” They do The Joan Rivers Show. Backup singers cancel. More TV shows cancel. They have to hire and fire. Duran Duran is now a corporation, and since they just fired their longtime managers, the Berrow Brothers, suddenly they are in charge.

It’s still the ’80s. Everyone smokes everywhere like it’s Mad Men. The women’s fashions are frankly terrifying, but the Heroic Trio are tricked out in superbly tailored suits to accompany their platinum-bleached (at least on Nick and Simon), blow-dried, and gelled hair. Now and then, Simon looks a fright, his face a bit bloated around the edges, but both John and Nick look amazing, all cheekbones, lips, observant eyes, and good teeth.

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