Popular dance act The Beatles, famous for, I believe, a song about I Can't Get No Satisfaction, once mused along the lines of You Can't Buy Me Love, all about diamond rings and "everything" are no substitute for the old cuddle and so on. The notion was so inspiring that Patrick Dempsey even went ahead and made a film about it, and also something about lawnmowers and telescopes. Most of us, however, know that in certain areas at certain times love can actually be bought for the price of a pint, but there's something to be said for the ponderings of those fellas what wrote songs about You Never Give Me Your Money and Money (That's What I Want, Motherfucker).

It seems that all the money in the world, and legions of fans what purchase the records and holler drunkenly in stadiums, and even wall-full's of bizarre yet highly valuable paintings can't put a smile on the face of the fellas what operate under the name Metallica.

These are some grumpy sons a bitches, is what. You might think the fellas what sang about Wasting My Hate and the one about a fella gets his limbs blew off, you might think they would be never far from a chuckle, but it turns out you'd be wrong, is what.

Some Kind Of Monster, the flick what follows the band throughout the recording of the controversial St Anger record, and also in and out of therapy sessions and so on, serves to create an endearingly human portrait of these corporate behemoths, and also to ensure that any misconceptions one might have had about they must be a bunch of miserable motherfuckers are now put to rest.

It wasn't a misconception, is the point to be made. These motherfuckers are just as miserable as you imagined.

Some Kind Of Monster shares a lot of common ground with that other band-on-the-brink Rockumentary, Let It Be. Just like in the film about The Beatles, we see a bunch of fellas going in to the studio under the glare of the cameras and so on, and watch as they try to pluck something worthwhile from the scraps of riffs and jams what pepper the first three quarters. Like Let It Be, there's a tension a man could slit a wrist on, and the resultant record is a deliberate attempt to rekindle the sounds and the emotions what emerged all those years ago, in a Liverpudlian front room or an amphetamine-charged basement in Hamburg.