circleOver-involving your subject, whether in a documentary or biopic, can turn treasure into trash. The members of Queen turned into bland, unapologetically heroic figures when they produced Bohemian Rhapsody; Ice Cube and Dr. Dre did the same when they collaborated on 2015’s Straight Outta Compton. Meanwhile, projects like Metallica’s Some Kind of Monster and Anton Corbijn’s stylish Joy Division film, Control, gave their subjects no producer credits, creating fascinating, complex portraits of the artists.
So, a few minutes into the Run-DMC documentary, Kings From Queens, the words “Executive Producers Joseph ‘Rev Run’ Simmons and Darryl ‘DMC’ McDaniels” pop up on the screen, and I can’t help but take aback. Thankfully, listening to the many commentators who appear throughout the three hours, it’s clear that Run-DMC connected with people because of their insistence on honesty. Even as they tell their stories, the surviving members of the group admit to feelings of inadequacy, anxiety, and substance abuse, and to having their greatest successes in spite of them. Perhaps even more shocking than DMC’s candidness about alcoholism and suicidal thoughts is his admission that he’s a nerd whose love for Canadian singer Sarah McLachlan and Spider-Man comics is more important than anything else. Rather than pumping himself up to perform with a hyper-masculine attitude, the sweet-natured rapper asks, “What would Peter Parker do?”
We soon learn that without comics, Run-DMC wouldn’t exist. The show begins with their origins in Queens, New York, where Run and DMC were model students in a city that, in Rev’s words, was seen as “bankrupt and corrupt” at the time. The young friends sold their prized comics and bought turntables. They spent all their free time honing their rapping and DJing skills, hoping that once they were good enough, Run’s big brother Russell Simmons, co-founder of Def Jam, would sign them to a record deal.
Soon, Jam Master Jay joined the group, and his rugged background earned him some much-needed street cred: As the Beastie Boys’ Ad-Rock put it, “Jay was the sweetest guy, had the prettiest smile, but he could ruin you so easily.” The editing is playful, acknowledging the unreliability of the interviewees’ narration, poking fun at those who brag about their contributions before switching to another character and saying, “Yeah, he was an intern.”
The first episode covers the group’s rise with talk shows and clips cut with sharp musicality over old-school hip-hop beats. The second episode moves to the height of their fame, with their world tours, Live Aid appearances, and hit after hit with My Adidas, It’s Tricky, and It’s Like That. But aside from Jay, it’s clear that they hated their biggest hit, a collaborative cover of Aerosmith’s Walk This Way, and are trying to correct the established narrative surrounding the song. First, Aerosmith needed Run-DMC for relevance, not the other way around. Second, the fact that it was completely irrelevant to the lives of their core fans may have led to their downfall.
At a time when they should have been on top of the world, Run became disillusioned with hip-hop’s transition to gangsta rap, and in 1995 he became a Pentecostal minister, renaming himself Reverend Run. DMC’s mental health continued to deteriorate, and in 2002 Jam Master Jay was murdered in a recording studio at age 37. When the series tackled the tragedy in its third episode, it wisely slowed down, as if overwhelmed by grief. Most of the airtime is devoted to Jay’s widow and three children, who recount their memories of Jay, interspersed with home videos of the family. When those who knew him talk about his death, from LL Cool J to the Beastie Boys to the many producers and young rappers whose talent he nurtured, we feel the gravity of his loss. It’s a way to mourn the artist and friend openly and honestly, without the need to turn him into an angel.
But for all the intelligence and sensitivity with which the show tackles the racial issues of the time, and for all its faithful portrayal of this band of cranky pioneers, Russell Simmons’ appearance remains the standout. There’s no mention of the sexual harassment and assault allegations against the mogul (all of which he denies), and he sits relaxed, smiling and in lotus position reminiscing about his early days in hip-hop. He’s since left Def Jam, but his smirking appearance here is distracting at best, nauseating at worst.
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It’s a shame that a series based on telling the story of art as it is so blatantly glamorizes Simmons, but if we can keep everything else in mind, the story of the actual members of Run-DMC remains fascinating and raw. As LL Cool J put it, “If there were five heads on the Mount Rushmore of hip-hop, they’d take up three spots.”
