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He found his way to the Sunset Strip and into the background of countless photos and TV spots. There's Rodney with the Stones, the Doors, the Beatles, Elvis, Alice Cooper, Sonny and Cher, David Bowie, Brooke Shields. Only someone as unobtrusive, non-threatening, and chameleon-like as Rodney could travel in such wide-ranging circles.  Sometimes you look into his blank stare, hear his sentences trail off with uncomfortable “hmmm-mmmm's” and wonder if there's anyone home. 

But one thing I've always suspected of Rodney – and why I liked listening to him as a kid – is that he has a good heart. The LA WEEKLY calls him an “unconditional fan.”  As Cher says in the film, “You didn't have to worry about him. You didn't have to worry what his ulterior motive was.” Which makes it all the more disturbing when ultra-mellow-fade-into-the-woodwork Rodney blows up at Dramarama's Chris Carter for copping his radio show and taking it to another station. I never imagined Rodney Bingenheimer pissed off. Already having suffered the indignities of being moved to a whittled-down, thankless time slot, this betrayal was the last straw.

At times, Hickenlooper's heavy-handed angling of this film shows that he's much more concerned about showing the dark side of fame than he is about Rodney. The intrusions into his private life, like the visit to his father's house, are so pathetic it's hard to imagine they haven't been staged. One can't help but wonder if Rodney is too stupid, unassuming, or as the LA WEEKLY put it, “too generous” to realize he's being exploited.  And many of the celebs interviewed, like the treacherous Kim Fowley, are more concerned about mugging for the camera.  As the unforgiving Cherie Currie says of Fowley: “He just used Rodney.” You get the feeling that Hickenlooper is doing the same.

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