Cathardincu Surprisingly incoherent and boring

Matialth Good concept, poorly executed.

Cleveronix A different way of telling a story

AshUnow This is a small, humorous movie in some ways, but it has a huge heart. What a nice experience.

andmatch The concert is everything in this film, and in itself, is well worth sitting through the by now very dated little dream sequences that "illustrate" the band members' personae. But remember, this was the 70's and well before the video clip sophistication to come, so although some viewers might smirk at all the mystical medieval references, the more indulgent fans will have no problem with the outmoded visuals. (Actually, Page's personal time travel trip is not too bad, and Bonham's unabashed simplicity and adhesion to the basics: drive fast, work hard, have fun, and make those drums go boom is kind of endearing.) Well, try to get past the "movie" part and concentrate on the concert; it's a thrilling show and a rare document; Led Zep at their summit doing some of their best songs (I vote for "Since I've been Loving You") and giving their fans what they want: long, elaborate Jimmy Page solos, a big thump and bump bottom line by Jones and especially Bonham, and for the ladies (and some guys, no doubt) Robert Plant in all his glory, wearing them on the left and belting out the most unforgettable vocals in the history of rock.

bob the moo I'm not a massive fan of Led Zeppelin but I think that this is at least partly due to me missing them totally from my musical education. I got some albums recently to try and rectify this and was surprised by how many of the songs I already knew without knowing it was them. Following on from that I watched this film which manages to flick from being good to being ridiculous on almost a scene by scene basis. Now, I'm not totally sure of the history here but I am led to understand that the film came at a time when the band was under great strain and not at their best. For me this didn't show too much in the concert footage, which I found to be enjoyable as a live performance but also technically well captured and recorded. Those who have seen them elsewhere may disagree but I have nothing else to work with here.However the remainder of the film is mostly poor. Between (and under) the live performances are bit of other material, almost none of which works. The stuff that had potential is the behind the scenes stuff and I did want more of that, with perhaps a bit of structure and meaning to it – sadly I got none of this. Even still though, these bits are brilliant compared to the pretentious nonsense that the band came up with for the rest of the film. Absurd home movies and fantasy sequences are played out that are laughable in the extreme. I really do want to believe that the band had given up trying to prevent the film coming out so instead decided to take the p1ss, although at the same time that speaks badly of their respect for fans so I'm not sure if bad taste or bad attitude is preferable. These scenes extend the film beyond what it can bear and I was glad when it finally ended.No doubt about it that the music is good but with so much rubbish thrown in on top of it I'm just not sure if the film is worth the work involved to see the recorded performances. One for the hardcore fans much more than the casual viewer.

hillsack Without meaning to offend the more sensible amongst you, what is it about the American psyche which makes shrines out of this rubbish? It's impossible to get nostalgic about this just because it happened a long time ago: hype will always be hype.The town goes wild as the bloated ego of the dirigible floats into town. As the group goes through the predictable motions yet again, we're treated to another robotic roller coaster ride to the tune of "look how well we can play our instruments"; yes, it's virtuoso time once more, like a tale told by an idiot, a screeching, cacophonous din full of sound and fury, going nowhere and signifying nothing – except any old mystical interpretation you choose to slap on it, of course. This is overlong, fortified, dreary muck forked out of the old Yardbirds' stable, accompanied by the same old borrowed mindset reflected in feeble, misogynist lyrics about women being unobtainable goddesses or vassals of Satan, low harlots to be bedded before they abandon their lover to turn the next trick. Led Zeppelin: the sniggering rugby club of narcissistic cock rock.Meanwhile, backstage, charmless manager-bully Peter Grant fuels the stupid mythology and rehearses his fatal heart attack by huffing and puffing himself up, roundly abusing the polite local staff and nearly bursting into tears at discovering a black guy selling old photos of the band for a few bob at an unlicensed stall. "Nobody makes a crooked buck from my boys, etc, etc." Poor quiet John Paul Jones! No wonder he occasionally got sick to death of it all! Such a waste of an excellent musician, too.Perhaps my introductory question can be partly answered by the extraordinary visual appeal Zeppelin holds for the Big Hero Worshipper, the spoilt suburban brat and the clueless Walter Mitty who tenses his pectorals in the bathroom mirror and wishes his groin were girded by a gaggle of gorgeous, grovelling groupies, all of them gagging for it! Yeah, yeah, baby, push, push. So, while the weighty wish-fulfilment of the fantasy sequences is laughably childish, it's no surprise that Robert Plant's preening posturing hits the embarrassment jackpot, together with his sing-talking in the middle of "Whole Lotta Love", in which he ingratiates himself with the audience by adopting the famous false American accent, much derided, and deservedly so, by the British punk rockers of the day.But there is a moral, or at least a message to the film; it is an unpalatable foretaste of the message sent by the even more monstrous example of Michael Jackson in the following decade: even if you're pushing thirty, provided that you have a seemingly inexhaustible income and you are mollycoddled and protected by ruthless muscle, you can spend time in a plastic bubble fantasy world of undiluted puerility, whilst penning the next constipated opus which you bequeath fit for an awestruck and ever-grateful public.

winner55 there's no blaming the filmmaker for the unmitigated disaster that is this film, it is all clearly the band's idea; they just seem to have forgotten what an idea is.To be sure, the sole survivor of this mess (and I include the audience at the concert this records) is Robert Plant; given the chance he reveals himself the definitive white tenor/falsetto blues singer, in complete control of his vocal range, and able to sing blues lyrics like poetry. This doesn't make him any less annoying, he just has a good voice. (Another reviewer complained he was off key; actually, Page is off key and Plant tries to get him back on.) If only he had a real blues band behind him, and didn't have to whine silly lyrics about heaven, hell and fairies.on the other hand there is the John Paul Jones masturbation number, "No Quarter", which supplied the raw material for the brilliant parody "This Is Spinal Tap".Alright, so the devil is walking with the dead: big deal. And it's all a Victorian masque after all - what disappointment! This film put an end to the concert film, and marked the beginning of the end of Led Zepplin and of the first wave of British Heavy Metal. It's easy to see why - every self-indulgent excess is worn on the sleeve of Jimmy Page, who seems to know how to play three notes very rapidly and repeated seemingly forever. Hurrah. No wonder metal heads began singing the praise of Tony Iommi so glowingly after this.No, really, if you want innovation, you listen to Greg Ginn; if you want to know where "No Quarter" ought to go, listen to Black Flag's "My War" LP; that doesn't even bother raising the question whether there is any quarter to be given, it just lashes out, cutting through all the pretentious psychedelic muck that informs this impossibly silly music video.This film pretty much put an end to one of the strangest phenomenons in music history: "British Rock and Roll"; white blues played by pill heads wanting to be Percy Shelly - HELP! There's only one thing a real rocker can say after surviving this expensive, over indulgent, over-rated piece of mud: THANK GOD FOR THE SEX PISTOLS!