At 23, Sinéad O’Connor was a chart-topping international superstar. By the time she turned 26, she was fodder for jokes. She was hardly the first and wouldn’t be the last female pop artist to be derided for coloring outside the lines, but as a sympathetic and perceptive new documentary reminds us, O’Connor wasn’t vilified simply for being erratic or unclassifiable, though that surely didn’t help.
“Everybody felt it was OK to kick the shit out of me,” O’Connor recalls in a new interview for Kathryn Ferguson’s Nothing Compares. “I regret that I was so sad because of it,” she adds, her crystalline voice deepened by the years. The fallout from what she endured, and her retreat from the limelight and ensuing struggles, are alluded to but not explored here; the focus of Kathryn Ferguson’s first feature-length film is O’Connor’s ahead-of-the-mainstream courage, and her outrage.
Nothing Compares
The Bottom Line
A dynamic and sympathetic reassessment.
Venue: Sundance Film Festival (World Cinema Documentary Competition)
Director: Kathryn Ferguson
Screenwriters: Eleanor Emptage, Kathryn Ferguson, Michael Mallie
1 hour 36 minutes
Youthful daring fueled that outrage, but its roots were the wounds of a difficult childhood. She was trying to start a conversation about the things she believed unjust, some of them horrors she knew firsthand. But the Irish singer-songwriter’s protests against the Gulf War, racism and the Catholic Church’s abuse of women and children enraged a lot of people, from flag-waving “patriots” to a pissed-off Frank Sinatra and a hate-spewing Camille Paglia. Based on the reaction clips Ferguson includes, the offended apparently valued the national anthem or a photo of the pope — famously torn to pieces by O’Connor during her 1992 Saturday Night Live appearance — more than they valued freedom of speech. And Paglia apparently felt that O’Connor’s earnestness was a greater crime than the things she decried.
Timing matters when you’re saying things that people aren’t ready to hear, and Nothing Compares frames its subject’s story through the light of retrospect, while capturing the emotional intensity for O’Connor in those early years of her career. The matter of timing also lends an awful layer of headline resonance to the documentary: Ferguson’s film took its Sundance bow just a couple of weeks after the suicide of O’Connor’s teenage son and the singer’s subsequent hospitalization. The devastation of her recent loss reverberates in the doc, especially its passages concerning motherhood.
O’Connor, who was subjected to physical and emotional violence at the hands of her mother, welcomed her own opportunity to be a parent. She was young and her career was just taking off when she became pregnant, and she and musician-producer John Reynolds embraced the prospect of parenthood (he’s one of the film’s interviewees, and has an executive producer’s credit). Her record company saw things differently, though, and sent her to a doctor who encouraged her to abort the pregnancy so that she could remain focused on her work. She owed it to the label, he said.
O’Connor had her baby. And she took her music-biz defiance further, shaving her head and following her own, gender-fluid sartorial preferences — making her compelling and confusing at a time when female performers were expected to conform to a girlie aesthetic. (On the matter of her style and looks, a clip from an interview with Charlie Rose doesn’t do his tainted reputation any favors). O’Connor came to be known as fierce, uncompromising and confrontational, but the film reminds us, through some of her early TV appearances, how polite and soft-spoken she was when she wasn’t letting that big voice roar in song.
Ferguson offers exhilarating evidence of the voice’s supple power even when O’Connor was still in her teens. There’s grainy footage of her performing in a small London club in 1985, and a home-movie recording of her singing at the wedding of Jeannette Byrne, the beloved music teacher who recognized and encouraged her gift. Byrne is among the friends and famous admirers — Peaches, Kathleen Hanna, Chuck D — heard in the film. Ferguson uses only audio for the new interviews, the commentaries heard over a dynamic mix of scene-setting footage from the period. With ace editing by Mick Mahon, the director seamlessly incorporates dialogue-free enactments of moments in O’Connor’s life, adding cinematic texture to the proceedings.
An especially smart choice is the inclusion of excerpts from the 1967 documentary Rocky Road to Dublin, evoking a sense of the Ireland of O’Connor’s formative years. Tellingly, that highly regarded film by Peter Lennon, with its critique of a repressive, Church-dominated society, was essentially banned in the country for many years. Beyond the traumas she faced at home, O’Connor spent some time in a residential training center that was connected to one of the infamous Magdalene laundries, where she saw firsthand the way “fallen” women were thrown away. “The whole of Ireland talks about these ladies,” O’Connor says. “But I met them.”
O’Connor’s videos are excerpted too, including the one for her megahit adaptation of Prince’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” directed by John Maybury. The song itself is unheard, permission for its use denied by the Prince estate, but the video’s imagery, O’Connor’s tearful close-up especially, are so indelible that the song, or its memory, comes through anyway.
A pivotal event in O’Connor’s career brackets the film: the all-star celebration of Bob Dylan’s 30th anniversary, two weeks after her controversial SNL appearance. Introduced to the Madison Square Garden crowd by Kris Kristofferson, O’Connor would soon be comforted by him when the crowd — or at least a vocal portion of it — tried to boo her offstage. As musician John Grant comments: “People who would boo Sinéad O’Connor — what were they doing at a Bob Dylan concert?” Substitute different artists’ names, and it’s a question that many rock fans have asked themselves over the concert-going years. Usually it’s a matter of an opening act’s musical style colliding with an audience’s one-track mind: Toots and the Maytals heckled while opening for The Who, Prince booed opening for the Stones, a Clash crowd turning on Los Lobos, to name a few cringe-inducing examples.
But in O’Connor’s case, her music was a known, and widely admired, quantity; people were angry at her. It’s no longer shocking to talk about the things she talked about: mental health, child abuse, the crimes of the Church. Leaving off with the pain of that 1992 show at the Garden, Nothing Compares picks up again with a contemporary performance by O’Connor. As a teenager she needed to sing, and she still sings, far from the pressures of pop stardom but, Ferguson shows, having played a crucial role in rewriting the rules of the pop-star game. Like most people ahead of the curve, she paid the price. Speaking of “a whole decade or two decades of artists,” Chuck D puts it succinctly: “She broke the ice.”