‘The Ballad of Judas Priest’ Review: A Delightful Rock Doc

Some documentaries are searing exposés of the unpalatable truth and some are unashamed celebrations of a beloved subject — and if you think “The Ballad of Judas Priest,” from co-directors and Priest fans Tom Morello and Sam Dunn, is going to be anything other than an ode to everything that’s great about the British headbangers, you’ve got another thing coming.

In a film compiled from interviews with the band, archive footage (some of which is previously unpublished), and interviews with luminaries including The Smashing Pumpkins’ Billy Corgan, Foo Fighters’ Dave Grohl, actor Jack Black and the late Ozzy Osbourne, the name of the game is not formal innovation. And that’s just fine: Sometimes, it’s not desirable for the documentary to get in the way of the stories.

A pioneer of the heavy metal genre, Judas Priest formed in 1969 and have been going strong ever since, with a good claim to having invented or defined many of the tropes of the genre. They’ve gone through more drummers than Spinal Tap (don’t worry, the film makes that joke, along with a “to 11” reference from frontman Rob Halford) in an up-and-down, half-century-spanning career that’s seen them survive multiple line-up changes, controversy, fallings-out, alcohol problems, health issues and a misbegotten court case in Nevada.

It’s fascinating seeing the latter culture war replayed nearly 40 years later in all its stupidity: A legal travesty saw the hapless rockers having to defend themselves in court from the absurd proposition that vague subliminal messages in their music caused the deaths of two teenagers. As bassist Ian Hill points out, since the alleged (and in fact non-existent) messages were subliminal, they were being asked to prove that something which couldn’t be detected wasn’t there.

There’s plenty to chew on here, then, even if some outside of the metal community might struggle to name a Priest song. With more than 19 studio albums to their name, the band’s crossover hits represent a small proportion of their oeuvre, but the classics are duly represented here with footage from various eras, including the slightly surreal spectacle of their performance in the 2011 “American Idol” finale. Whether you’re a fan of the reality contest or not, there is something rather wonderful about seeing an aging group with working-class roots in Britain’s Midlands perform to millions of pop fans in 21st-century America.

It’s poignant too, to see the band grappling with mortality as they talk about coming to terms with issues like Glenn Tipton’s Parkinson’s diagnosis, a cruel condition in any case, but perhaps especially so for someone whose life has been so constructed around his dexterous guitar technique.

This doc isn’t the kind of significant coup that Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky pulled off with 2004’s
“Metallica: Some Kind of Monster”: The band are pretty much in on any jokes that are to be made. What this ballad does have, however, is heart — it’s unexpectedly moving at several moments. Oddly, one of these belongs to the guitarist from the aforementioned American rock stars. Metallica’s Kirk Hammett gets tearful when talking about how this sometimes maligned music genre has saved lives — contrary to the perception of the Christian right who funded the Nevada court case — both through its community and through the space that the music itself provides to aficionados as one of the most unashamedly cathartic of artforms.

In particular, Morello and Dunn’s presentation of frontman Halford’s sexuality and the issues surrounding his closeted status for much of the band’s existence provides an emotional core that feels unusual in the genre. Halford lived for years as a closeted gay man in the simultaneously macho and camp world of heavy metal. The documentary makes plenty of space for this narrative strand, without allowing it to become the entire story of the band.

Seeing footage of the younger Halford, in which he often appears very slightly guarded (and no wonder), you can’t help but want to get in a time machine and tell him he needn’t worry: When he finally speaks about his sexuality on MTV in 1998, the fans were supportive. The band was supportive too. And Priest were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022.

Of course, it’s impossible to know or speculate accurately about what the reaction would have been had he come out earlier in his career. That is part of the tragedy of the situation, but re-encountering the band’s leather-studded aesthetic and songs like “Grinder” (for crying out loud) through a queer lens is nothing but delightful. This is not the Liberace dynamic where in some sense a wry queer prank has been perpetrated on straight fans too clueless to clock it — it’s more a feeling of casual, mutual inclusivity. Who would have guessed that hard rock could also be so gentle?

A valid question for exhibitors will be whether the fans who still turn out en masse for the band’s sold-out arena concerts will show up in theaters, or whether the film is a more natural streaming prospect. You can certainly imagine any added-value screenings with the band themselves present selling out in a heartbeat, but the film may otherwise find its largest audience in living rooms.