The nicest thing I can think of to say about the doc “Neil Young Journeys” is that at least it isn’t in 3-D.
In this zero-effort production, director Jonathan Demme, who previously did “Stop Making Sense,” follows the crusty Canadian troubadour as he drives around his Ontario hometown reminiscing blandly. Look closely, and you may see the spot where young Young once murdered an innocent turtle by placing a firecracker up its sphincter.
In a solo concert, mainly a collection of interminable new 48-verse songs about disaster, Young’s rusty-screen-door voice combines with his fuzz guitar for an experience that crosses the line from “unpleasant” to “construction crew,” and all the way to “aural abuse.” There are a couple of hits, too, but without a backing band, even they sound dull and familiar rather than refreshed and raw.
Worse, Demme’s stubblecam advances within millimeters of Young’s unlovely and unrazored chin, so close you can smell what he had for breakfast. Young’s sulfurous, Last Honest Man in Show Business shtick (his fixed angry glare made me think of Sam the Eagle on “The Muppet Show”) and ragged lyrics (“When I sing about love and war/I don’t really know what I’m sayin’ ”) are no longer of interest to anyone except die-hard fans. A better title for the film would have been “Stop Making Records.”