Bowie: The Final Chapter – 10 years after his death, the rock god gets a colorful resurrection | TV and radio

THere’s a theory that the world went off on its axis with the death of David Bowie, 10 days after January 2016. That was also two days after his final, death-filled album Blackstar came out of nowhere. As an artistic statement it was prophetic and flawlessly theatrical. A feature-length documentary now shines a black light on the recording of this album, which some call Bowie’s creative resurrection. What does it reveal? Do we want to revisit that place emotionally?

Fortunately, Bowie: The Final Chapter (Saturday, January 3, 10pm, Channel 4) doesn’t just live in the catacombs. It begins at the height of Bowie’s pop fame: the 1983 Serious Moonlight Tour, where the Thin White Duke was transformed into a hero of American soul. This MTV-sanctioned stardom prompted by Pepsi ads was the beginning of the boredom of career procrastination, as Bowie’s artistic voice dried up under the bright spotlight he sought. He then returns to the beginning of his musical journey, taking us through his most notable events. With such seismic legends, it would be a crime not to do so. As you know, David Bowie invented the presentation look. It just so happened that they came from another planet.

Contributors are decent. They include members of Bowie’s bands, friends, producers Tony Visconti and Goldie, and novelist Hanif Qureshi. The latter recalls – without rancor – the way Bowie would form strong friendships with interesting people like himself, absorbing everything he needed, before abandoning them and moving on. It’s an important reminder that creative geniuses tend to leave a lot of personal wreckage in their wake. Moby is also shown with a tattoo on his neck that says Vegan for Life. This is not relevant, but it is distracting.

The film’s unusual theme is simple observations of a stellar career. Poorly received albums and crises of confidence. In one difficult scene, Melody Maker writer John Wild reads a scathing review he wrote of Tin Machine II, which ends with the words: “Sit down, man: you’re a fucking disgrace.” Bowie reportedly cried when he read it. As someone who started out as a scathing music critic, I felt antsy under my skin while watching.

Bowie’s less successful projects were mostly re-evaluated. Tin Machine, his attempt to be a side player in the traditional rock outfit, is still getting his ass kicked. “They’re a really bad band, with a really bad name,” is editor Dylan Jones’ assessment. “Vulcan pimp suits” is how band leader Reeves Gabriels describes their actual outfit — a collarless, colorful two-piece. There’s also magic here: Why would an otherworldly rock god, an androgynous who can no more blend into a crowd than a flamingo in a fur coat, want to be just “a guy in a band?” Genius alone is the implication.

Flashes of supernovas, black holes, and black stars recur throughout the film, a leitmotif of mortality. It’s difficult to watch the footage of Bowie walking off stage in Prague in pain, his illness asserting itself. He left the limelight for 10 years, enjoying family life as much as he could. After undergoing chemotherapy, he recorded his loneliest and most vulnerable album with full knowledge of what was to come. There is a dignity and courage to songwriters who can do this. I think of Warren Zevon and Leonard Cohen. It is their last gift, whether we are ready to receive it or not.

Director Jonathan Stiasny’s film is not a biopic, but it’s clear that he loves the Bowie legend as much as anyone. Thank God. There’s ecstasy in those pictures of Ziggy Stardust, that timeless face underneath all the makeovers, the hair that remains perfect. There is nostalgic bliss in the stories of Bowie’s playgrounds – London in the 1960s, New York in the 1970s. There are black-and-white shots of acid-soaked Glastonbury, when the festival crowd was naked hippies who wandered around. Bowie walked to his first show there, and ended up playing at 5 a.m.

There’s also the astonishing clip of Bowie’s 1999 Newsnight interview with Jeremy Paxman, in which he predicted the chaotic, internet-mediated world we live in today. I find myself wondering what he would have done with artificial intelligence. I find myself missing him and what he represents. A beacon for misfits, a champion of creativity without horizons or fear. He was creative and otherworldly. But in the end the art and the man were heartbreakingly human.