by Tom Gilmore

The End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones
Rhino Home Video, 2005

"They were like the military," says Debbie Harry about the Ramones in this fascinating, hilarious, and ultimately tragic documentary directed by Michael Gramaglia and Jim Fields, now on DVD. The military isn't the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the Ramones, but she has a point: The 1-2-3-4, the uniforms, and the almost unvarying approach from album to album all lend the group a discipline not often associated with punk music.

Yet for all their attempts at creating the illusion of brotherhood, this documentary is most successful at overturning that, and exposing Ramones for who they really were: Old friends often in conflict and sharing little in common other than a band and the assumed last name. How did they ever stay together? you might justifiably wonder. But then, maybe this is precisely why they lasted.

As a documentary it doesn't do anything stylistically out of the ordinary, but convention is OK here since dramatic narrative is so outstanding. The film is composed primarily of talking heads, including all the Ramones and their peers; piece by piece, this is how the story is told. The mix of characters is so captivating that at times the film shifts away from the group and becomes about the person in front of the camera. Witness Johnny's cynical delivery or, alternately, Dee Dee's demented manner—both are head-scratching cases of this; how they say it is every bit as important as what they say. And so the film is also a series of character studies, as well as a glimpse at the collective.

One way to inject a bit of drama into a documentary is to rely on the old fictional device of good guy / bad guy. The Ramones playing themselves add this element without any invention required. It's difficult to sympathize with Johnny, and he comes out looking the worst. Stealing Joey's girlfriend is forgivable in time, but his cold reaction to Joey's death is odd and unsettling. Anybody who knew Johnny well might tell you there was a very likeable person underneath the leather jacket and the iron exterior. Maybe, but it's not apparent here, and it's Johnny who gives the story its most sinister quality. He’s never satisfied with anything. He’s stoic, and seemingly incapable of love.

Joey, on the other hand, was an introvert until he stood in front of a mic, at which point he partly emerged from his shell, though always remaining shy and awkward, forever hiding behind the hair and sunglasses. Perhaps the most likeable Ramone, his lyrics are the stuff of classic pop, concerned with love as much as anything. In what seems like an imitation of something Joey
wrote about, Johnny steals his girlfriend, giving Joey material for a few songs but enough pain to last until the band was finished. Although the two continued to play side by side for more than fifteen years, the relationship became strictly, and sadly, professional.

The oddest of the bunch is easily the riotous, childlike Dee Dee (“The awful six year old,” as one friend describes him). His story of why he became a rapper in the eighties is comical, even charming. "When he’d [Schooly D] say ‘What time is it? Gucci time,’ I understood that,” said Dee Dee about this period. When he shows up at the airport to fly to a Ramones gig after coming from a Dee Dee King session, the band makes him change from his sweats and gold chains into his Ramones-issued getup. His self-absorption, no doubt resulting from years of drug abuse, reaches a funny but pathetic peak in his acceptance speech at the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame when he thanks only himself.

Tommy, the first in a long line of drummers, was the most grounded of the four and he forces you to conclude that his relative stability is the reason he left the band so very early on. He stayed around as an off and on producer, continuing to play a part in shaping the band’s destiny. His reflections are level and sincere, giving some sanity to the otherwise unpredictable mess.

One of the most frustrating things about the Ramones was their insistence on fame long after they'd achieved what most bands only dream of: massive cult status, hordes of fans, critical acclaim, sold out gigs, etc. The band's wish for some kind of Faustian bargain never appears to them in a satisfying way, and most of the frustration seems to originate from Johnny. “Anybody else would be happy if they have what we have,” said Dee Dee, summing up twenty-odd years of disappointment. The ethos is decidedly not punk, and at odds with today's climate in which thousands of bands couldn’t care less with success at that level.

Some think their acceptance into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame was ironic, whereas I think it's a further sign of just how mainstream they actually were. Their significance was securely established with the release of their cornerstone debut album and if this was all they ever gave the world they'd be no less important. Even in 1985 they were probably the most popular punk group after, perhaps, only the Sex Pistols and the Clash. There was a consensus on this long before they appeared on the list of Hall of Fame inductees so who is it ironic? How many bands are revered in the same way? Couldn’t they see that?

Then, lamentably, there's the quick decline. First Joey is felled by cancer, then Dee Dee from a heroin overdose, and soon after the film was finished Johnny also from cancer, all dead within three years of each other, leaving Tommy as the only original member still alive. Now CBGBs, which should probably be considered an honorary Ramone, looks next in line for the graveyard. It’s an era seemingly moments from passing away for good. If there's something to take from this incredible documentary, but more generally the Ramones, it's this: Go find a band in your backyard to love before the city starts naming streets for them and you find yourself busy playing catch-up.

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