The Ballad of Judas Priest
(Canada, 98 min.)
Dir. Tom Morello, Sam Dunn
Prod. Scot McFadyen, Sam Dunn
Programme: Special Presentations (Canadian premiere)
There’s much worthy of being applauded when witnessing self-awareness and reflection, even when engaged in minor bouts of mythologizing. Despite the obviously celebratory air throughout The Ballad of Judas Priest, a band and record label- authorized account of this iconic metal group, complete with the usual slew of talking-head interviews, vintage concert footage, melancholic wanderings through childhood haunts, and the other clichés, it doesn’t feel like it’s crafted on autopilot. It’s a reminder that, when done smartly, straight-up festive music doc can do a subject well.
So consider it a minor miracle that a film about the boisterous boys in this particular band is far more cerebral and effective than much of its ilk. It delves into topics not simply salacious or congratulatory but also offers genuine reflection upon deeper themes of artistic expression, navigating the travails of keeping personal secrets for the benefits of the group, and other elements that go beyond merely serving fans a pre-chewed meal of the usual fodder.
First of all, the boys from Birmingham prove to be a delight to hang out with. Founded by bassist Ian Hill, K.K. Downing, Glenn Tipson, and the lead singer/caterwauler Rob Halford, they joined fellow Black Country Midlands bands like Black Sabbath in crafting the Blues-inflected crunchy music that would soon be dubbed Heavy Metal. The film does a decent job in amplifying co-director Tom Morello’s Harvard-tuned thesis, that while Ozzy and the paranoid-era bandmates in Sabbath may have launched the genre, Judas Priest solidified the headbanging culture of heavy metal, creating a space for the offbeat to find their community.
It helps considerably that even the fans of the band on display are themselves highly entertaining and aware of how this serious talk can veer close to self-parody . While the likes of fellow pioneers Deep Purple (with Ian Gillan an obvious progenitor to Halford’s operatic, soaring vocals), or the minor mentions of legends like Led Zeppelin, it’s in fact the fictional band Spın̈al Tap that is mentioned over and over. Allusions to Rob Reiner’s revelatory mockumentary abound, from discarded Halford costumes that ended up being worn onscreen by Harry Shearer’s diminutive character Derek Smalls, to an obvious but somewhat embarrassed discussion of turning things “up to 11.”
Even certain archival footage screams of Tap’s glorious legacy, where references to Jeff Krulik’s 1986 short film Heavy Metal Parking Lot, a safari-like visit to tailgating teen gatherings for a Priest show, echoes overtly the scenes captured a half-decade earlier for both the preliminary short film and the eventual feature. Yet to Ballad’s credit, the obvious ridiculousness of these kids and their responses is seen through a lens of empathy, especially in the context of the very real circumstances that saw the band put on trial for affecting the very community they helped form.
The 1990 trial involving the band’s connection in a lawsuit is a major element that makes the story of this one band resonate far beyond its narrow scope. Sued for a supposed hidden message in one of their 1978 recordings (“Do it!” was among other suggested subliminal insertions), the plaintiff’s lawyers argued for a direct connection between the recordings of the band and the result of two drunken and drug-fuelled teens who both decided to take a shotgun to the face, one ending up badly maimed and the other ending his life.
Granted that decades have passed since that trial, it’s clear that there’s nothing sardonic or defensive in how they speak of this tragedy, navigating deftly but with genuine empathy when reflecting upon how awful the circumstances were, regardless of their eventual legal victory.
Similar nuance and understanding is presented when discussing one major aspect of Halford’s experience, notably the decades he spent as a closeted gay man. Despite leaning into many of the fashion excesses of the studded, leatherboy subculture, Halford kept things quiet for fear of interfering with the band’s success. His bandmates reflect on their own support for their friend, while admitting that certainly during the time of their initial success that to come out of the closet would have been a far more challenging thing given the suburban, masculinized bent of their fandom.
The “nothingburger” that resulted from his eventual admission during an MTV interview (dressed, as Halford admits, in full Anton Szander Lavey regalia) is itself a fascinating story beyond the band’s musical output. It certainly makes their story more engaging than what otherwise would be one of the usual, run-of-the-mill, lead-singer-leaves-and-comes-back narratives. Once again, beyond anything to do with whether you’re a fan of the band or not, there’s plenty of compelling stuff here that goes far beyond the machinations of one heavy metal group.
For fans, there’s still plenty to glean here, and the audio was suitably cranked for the film’s Canadian premiere. Sam Dunn and his producing partner Scot McFadyen have spent decades exploring this subculture with a mix of anthropological glee and keen insider insight, dating back to 2005’s Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey right through to documenting local heroes Rush with Beyond the Lighted Stage. The addition of virtuosic guitarist Tom Morello (Rage Against the Machine/Audioslave) as co-director is a welcome one, and his passionate articulation of what this band means to him softens the heart of even the most cynical viewers.
Jack Black brings his gleeful enthusiasm to celebrate the band, as does the likes of Metallica’s Kirk Hammett and Nirvana/Foo Fighters’ ever loquacious Dave Grohl. None is a stranger to this kind of reminiscence, but there’s something deeply personal about how they talk about this particular band, its legacy running deep not just in terms of its musicality, but in the fundamental ways this band seems to have helped form who they are as people.
And it’s this element, woven throughout, that makes this portrait of a band far more profound. Even the archival materials are treated with a level of seriousness and silliness, like the occasional interjection of additional elements akin to Monty Python’s animated asides. This is a band whose story is a worthy one, with members able to articulate their challenges both personal and professional, from rehab to fighting the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease, all with a strong tie to their working class roots and genuine appreciation for the fans that brought them success.
There’s a throwaway line from their “new” guitarist Richie Faulkner, touring with them since 2011, who admits flat-out that he’s not the best shredding guitarist on the planet, but he gets along with people and makes an excellent tea. It’s these small things that keeps a band like this chugging after five decades, and a small bit of humanity that goes well beyond the hubris normally on display. Halford is even casually deprecating about his sexuality, coyly referring to himself as a “vanilla gay,” a far cry from the intense figure he cuts on stage.
And that in the end is what sets The Ballad of Judas Priest apart from other music docs Despite all the pomp and silliness, there’s a deep humanity expressed in this telling. It’s not a film simply meant to sell a bunch of records from yet another band looking to kick out the jams for future generations. It’s something far more special than that. And in turn, the film in its oblique way, makes a strong argument that this band of rockers was equally something special, indeed.
The Ballad of Judas Priest screened at Hot Docs 2026.
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