When filmmaker Greg Whiteley met Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane at a Mormon service in Los Angeles, he had never heard tell of the New York Dolls. His decision to film Kane, a lovely, slightly worn soul, couldn’t have been more fortunate. As New York Doll tenderly reveals, Kane, a victim of the usual blandishments of rock stardom, would fall into obscurity and poverty, battling post-fame depression and alcoholism. From the bottom rung, he watched fellow-Doll David Johanson achieve post-band celebrity, though in truth, there was little between Johanson’s cameo spots in Scrooged and Car 54, Where Are You? and Arthur’s extra work on Inner Space and Spaceballs.
As Mr. Whiteley takes up with him, Arthur has improbably found peace as a Mormon working in the Church’s Family History Centre alongside two giggly elderly Sisters who joke that they might be his groupies.
“I can’t believe we know a rock star,” they declare delightedly.
Summoned by Lord Morrissey – here pontificating magnificently from what should be a throne – to take part in last year’s Meltdown Festival, the bassist treks to the pawnshop to redeem his guitar (thanks to a whip round from the Church), and cautiously, then joyously reunites with his band.
Whiteley’s poignant portrait of life after fame is entertainingly embellished with punk history 101 as told by Clem Burke, Bob Geldof, Mick Jones, Iggy Pop and Chrissie Hynde, but even the lively company won’t prevent you from getting teary during the final frames.
Warmly recommended to punks and Mormons everywhere.