Creating follow-ups to cherished and frequently quoted films is always a gamble, especially when they debut over four decades later. Such is the case with Spinal Tap II. The challenge isn’t that audiences have forgotten Rob Reiner’s brilliant 1984 mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap; rather, they remember it exceptionally well. No other film satirized the archetypal exaggerated rock-star ego as effectively as Spinal Tap, and countless fans know the movie almost word for word. Mention a drummer spontaneously combusting or “turning it up to 11,” and nearly everyone understands the reference. A continuation of This Is Spinal Tap seems almost inconceivable, which may explain why it took 41 years for one to materialize.
Fortunately, Spinal Tap II largely builds upon the original film’s legacy instead of simply replaying its most iconic jokes for sentimental appeal. Like its predecessor, this sequel is also helmed by Reiner, once again portraying the documentary filmmaker Martin di Bergi. His objective this time is to chronicle the band’s preparations for a major reunion concert that they aren’t truly eager to perform. Following their significant success in the 1980s, the band has fractured, with its three remaining members—given their notorious inability to retain a drummer—having moved on to different professions. Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) manages a cheese shop in the charmingly real town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, supported by his loving wife, to whom he is devoted. Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer) operates a somewhat gloomy glue museum, deriving—or at least feigning—enjoyment from the numerous substances capable of bonding surfaces. David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) performs in a mariachi band and also composes generic-sounding themes for true-crime podcasts, alongside telephone hold music. He presents di Bergi with a sample of the latter, elegantly and concisely titled “Your Call Is Important to Us.” “It earned a Holdie,” he states proudly.
It emerges that the daughter of their deceased manager, the wonderfully absurdly named Hope Faith (Kerry Godliman), has inherited a contract from her father, mandating that the members reunite for a final performance. Having not spoken in years—they’ve harbored their resentments for so long they barely recall their origins—they reconnect in an uncomfortable gathering. With caution, they tune their instruments and begin rehearsals, grumpily bickering as they prepare for the proverbial last show. Gradually, they ease back into the familiarity of each other’s company. In their advanced age, they also spend a considerable amount of time seated.
The humor is silly, yet gentle. The band requires some promotional strategies for their upcoming concert. How about a bottled drink named Tap Water? (It is precisely what its name implies.) They revive old tunes, such as the timeless classic “Big Bottom,” with its legendary line, “How could I leave this behind?” Derek introduces a new composition he’s been working on, filled with gothic death imagery. (It’s called “Rockin’ in the Urn.”) There are several superstar cameos, and they are skillfully integrated into the film’s simple narrative. By the time you read this, you might already know who they are, though I still believe it’s best not to reveal them.
However, Spinal Tap II is more poignant than it is uproariously funny. We’ve all witnessed aging musicians dust off their instruments for a final tour. Reunion performances often possess a vibrant, all-out spirit, and this film captures that too, in the most tender way possible. Guest, McKean, and Shearer exhibit no vanity, and in a world obsessed with smooth, tight appearances, this is wonderful to observe. You’ll see slender pants on not-so-slender bodies, CBGB T-shirts stretched over softly bulging midsections, and shaggy hair that looks suspiciously voluminous to be entirely natural. Early on, the reunited members face a critical challenge: they need a drummer. After a whimsical montage of unsuitable candidates (though I’d contend the tabla player shows some potential), they discover the right one, an energetic talent named Didi Crockett (Valerie Franco).
Didi is youthful, spirited, and endearing, and Shearer’s Derek watches her with adoration as she powerfully plays the drum kit. Later, he makes a polite advance, which she just as gently declines. His expression sags slightly when Didi’s girlfriend—sweet and enthusiastic, if vaguely condescending toward the older men—bounces in, but he quickly conceals his disappointment and greets her warmly. It’s a genuinely lovely, bittersweet moment. Young individuals rarely seem to grasp how swiftly a lifetime can pass. This truth is evident in Shearer’s eyes, though he isn’t finished yet; he can still harbor a crush, because anyone can. The grave is a fine and secluded place. But why hasten towards it, when there’s still music to be made?