Missus O and I went to see "Montage Of Heck" yesterday afternoon. It's the story of Kurt Cobain's life, from his troubled childhood in Washington to his troubled adulthood. It's a turbulent tail of course, and Kurt's travails are well-documented. The director, Brett Morgen, decided instead to let those close to him give their versions of events and then to splice this reportage with the singer's own writings and recordings. Cobain was a prolific recorder of sound montages, and, helpfully for biographers, also kept extensive notebooks that detailed his feelings and plans.
It was tough viewing. There was a dreadful inevitability about Kurt's demise. He was too sensitive to survive the macerating effects of stardom. What surprised me, although I know the band's story well, was the speed of their ascent. They went from promising local band in the north west United States to latter day Beatlemania in a matter of months. Those who knew and loved Kurt feared for him, especially his mother. She recalls the telling and prophetic day that he called at her house with a cassette of the then unreleased Nevermind. She realised in an instant it would be huge and the potential cost it would exact from her diffident, emotionally-needy son, telling him "Oh, my god - you'd better buckle up."
She was right of course. Kurt simply couldn't stand being famous. He appeared bewildered. People he didn't know were praising him. For someone who felt rejected after his parents' divorce, this was too much. He become reclusive, suspicious and paranoid. His drug use escalated and we all know the rest.
The hardest thing to take from Kurt's death is his vulnerability. He was so very childlike. One felt compelled to nurture and protect him. But it was clear that by the time the world knew his name, he was beyond redemption.
