The Must-watch Beatles Documentary: My 8 Hours with the Fab Four
By Emma Kate Miller
A woman who never quite got The Beatles finally gives in to Get Back, and ends up in a full-blown (joking) parasocial relationship with four men from Liverpool.
I’d had little interest in The Beatles. Sure, they had a few bangers, my mum was a fan, and she passed on a decidedly unfair dislike of Jane Asher. But the murder of John Lennon is one of my earliest memories. It was the first time I remember feeling the pain of adults around me, and I think I subconsciously avoided The Beatles ever since.
Fast forward to now. When you’re in the final stages of finishing a magazine (I won’t bore you, but it involves checking prices, confirming stock, making pages flow, tweaking copy, and waiting on advertising artwork that only sometimes arrives on time), you can’t go out. You need to stay alert but not overstimulated. So you find something to play quietly in the corner of your phone.
I’d exhausted Netflix (sorry, but the second series of Nobody Wants This fell flat for me), Apple is reserved for the evening (Slow Horses is outstanding), and Prime… well Jeff, if I’m already paying for it, why do I have to pay more to rent? So I turned to Disney. I don’t even know why we have it. Who pays for it. Or what’s on it. Presumably something to do with Star Wars.
I wanted a documentary, but not true crime. The world is grim enough without inviting it in. The first thing to pop up was The Beatles: Get Back. I clicked play, and that was that.
Directed by Peter Jackson, (guy knows a long watch!) Get Back transforms hours of raw studio footage from January 1969 into something quietly astonishing. Originally filmed for Michael Lindsay-Hogg’s 1970 movie Let It Be, the sessions captured The Beatles writing and recording what would become their final album of the same name. Jackson revisited more than 60 hours of unseen film and 150 hours of audio, restoring it with forensic precision and giving it a warmth and clarity that makes you feel like you’re in the room. Across almost eight hours, you are four men in their late twenties, exhausted, funny and brilliant, trying to make magic one last time.
It’s an extraordinary film precisely because it’s so ordinary. There’s so much tea and toast. They smoke, they sulk, they laugh, they play. And all the while, you remember that these are the most famous musicians on the planet.
What’s fascinating is how normal they seem compared with everyone around them. The others in the room, roadies, engineers, partners, move with this kind of reverent hush. Not sycophantic exactly, but definitely deferential. They orbit them like planets around a sun. It’s not forced or fawning, just the quiet awareness that they’re in the presence of something rare.
At one point George storms off after yet another creative clash, muttering, “I’ll see you in the clubs,” and disappears for a week. Then he’s back, and they carry on as if nothing happened. Only the kind of friendship forged in childhood, tested by fame and strengthened through years of intuitive collaboration could survive that sort of rupture. It’s the shorthand of family. No need for long apologies, just the unspoken understanding that the music matters more.
It completely redefined my 50-year-old perception of the biggest band the world has ever seen. George, the quiet one, was clearly at the end of his journey with his boyhood bandmates, desperate to do his own thing, frustrated at being sidelined, occasionally petulant (“I want a tie, can someone go and get me one?” Cut to him in a purple bow tie). Ringo, the fun one, looked tired throughout. He arrived first every day, never moaned, and quietly held it all together. His role meant he was always at the mercy of the others, waiting for the magic to happen so he could join in. There’s a steadiness about him that’s both touching and sad. John, the joker, not the serious activist I’d assumed, was besotted with Yoko, who never left his side. And Paul, the tireless creative, trying to keep his mates focused while churning out songs at a pace that defied belief.
And the clothes. John’s fur coat, flared jeans, red socks and filthy white plimsolls looked unbelievably modern. Paul and George’s knits would sit happily on a fashion page today. Ringo’s red patent raincoat, worn for the finale on the roof, is one I now desperately want. The chemistry between them, along with the knowledge you’re watching the end of something extraordinary, makes Get Back a deeply special piece of filmmaking. It’s poignant, intimate and really cool. Watching arguably the greatest songwriters in history at work, seeing the process, the teamwork, the brilliance, is a privilege. I’d recommend it to anyone.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and check on my new best friends, The Beatles.