Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Baby Driver) has made a documentary about the cult band Sparks. Stated in this way, that does not necessarily sound like a remarkable subject for a film. Yet less than 10 minutes into the film, it is abundantly clear exactly how ambitious an undertaking this is.

Sparks, the underrated, overlooked, and utterly singular vehicle of brothers Russ and Ron Mael, have been active since the late 1960s. They have 25 studio albums to their name, none of them interchangeable—their body of work attests to an unwavering desire to experiment, regardless of popular opinion. Add to this their near indescribable performance style, which embraces a variety of costumes and relies on the irresistible shtick between the two brothers, with Russ as the mercurial and flamboyant singer and Ron as the cartoonishly droll keyboard player. Their album covers tell fragmented stories, and their songs are sometimes so strange they are genuinely jarring. The brothers, however, are fairly private, which coupled with their uniqueness, lends mystery to them.  

As their numerous celebrity fans (Beck, Thurston Moore, and many others) attest, there is no one quite like them. Wright goes through each of their albums sequentially, which quickly reveals their overwhelming ability to absorb different styles and embrace absurdity. A song like “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us,” an early hit, is at once jaunty, theatrical, and oddly aggressive. Many of those interviewed remark that, upon hearing songs like this on the radio, or seeing the band on TV, they had no idea what was happening. 

At two hours and 15 minutes, the documentary feels a little rushed, and with so much material, it is difficult to imagine how it could be otherwise unless made into a TV series. Generally speaking, though, the brothers are well served by the film, for it inspires a burning desire to cancel all plans and just listen to Sparks. 

Wright relies on a mix of testimony from talking heads, interviews with the brothers, archival footage, and, occasionally, playful animated sequences. We don’t learn much about their personal lives, except for an early sequence regarding their childhoods, which deals briskly with the death of their father, the early influences of movies and rock and roll, and their surprising affinity for sports in high school. 

The film is, instead, a portrait of their artistry and their persistence, and the brothers are fairly straightforward, if sometimes coy and humorous. Their career has had incredible ups and downs, has taken place in America and in the United Kingdom, and included a period in the ’90s in which, for six years, they were writing songs constantly without a recording contract. Yet they are forthcoming and pleasantly uninhibited when discussing their decisions, their evolving tastes, their partnership, and the emotional ups and downs of having such a vibrant fringe career. 

Wright has assembled a whole slew of industry and celebrity fans to discuss the band they so clearly love. For the most part, the musicians and producers who have worked with Sparks directly are the ones, apart from the brothers, who have the most to bring to the table. We also hear from many outside of the music industry, and it is notable how many comedians (Patton Oswalt, Mike Myers, DJ Lance Rock) have taken inspiration from them. Though it was nice to see Neil Gaiman and Jason Schwartzman, I was confused as to what their specific perspectives were supposed to offer, other than to note the band’s broad influence. This documentary is also guilty of some of the flaws typical in the genre: a little too much reiterating exactly how unique and underappreciated the brothers are. 

None of this ultimately gets in the way, and what stands out above all is the brothers’ persistence to pursue their vision for its own sake, in complete disregard to the trends they’ve lived through. In 2021, they’re still going strong.