‘Making Sense’ of Taylor Swift and the ‘Eras Tour’ Movie

After just a single weekend in release and an estimated $123 million worldwide in the coffers, Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour has already become the highest-grossing concert film ever. And it also happens to be in theaters while Talking Heads’ seminal rock-doc Stop Making Sense is celebrating a 40^th anniversary re-release. In a Barbenheimer-worthy moment of kismet, audiences can right now enjoy watching the most popular live-music pic of all time and the most acclaimed live-music pic of all time. What an opportunity to take stock.

In one film, a pop superstar smizes and opens her show with an “Oh hi!” that has the mock-sincere energy of an overcaffeinated child star. In the other, a cerebral rock legend brings out a lo-fi boom box and deadpans, “Hi, I’ve got a tape I want to play.” One showcases ten-foot-tall jumbotrons, elaborate scaffolding, hydraulic cubes, and an undulating, state-of-the-art LED stage to entertain 70,000. The other only rarely shows its 2,700 spectators and centers one performance around a floor lamp. Both, in their own way, are oddly compelling.

This is a fool’s errand, of course, since the comparison is mostly apples-to-oranges. The 169-minute Eras Tour is a victory-lap celebration of a behemoth pop-culture phenomenon with a singer-songwriter at the height of her powers. Clocking in at 88 lean minutes, Stop Making Sense is an art-house documentation of post-punk’s most significant band turning their performance into a performance piece.

But both movies are also singular visions that the talent completely bankrolled. Neither is a corporate product, nor are they the result of an overbearing record label eager to exploit their cash cow and make a quick buck. These are force-of-will films signifying career milestones. And attention must be paid—not only for what the movies show about their artists, but for how those musical acts want to be represented for posterity.

Swifties don’t give a damn about musicianship—they want a grand spectacle for the soundtrack of their lives. Intimate confessionals and girl-power anthems, festooned with friendship bracelets and hand-heart gestures, as well as nine different costume changes and color co-ordinations for the albums representing the various eras of Swift’s recording career to date. Even the mic stands deserve a touring exhibit: sherbet swirls for Lover, a faux-wood cover for Evermore and Folklore, ruby red and black for Red, lavender for Midnights.

Sure, Swift gives a shout-out to her “phenomenal band” at the very end of the show, but otherwise they hide in two clusters on the far left and far right of the gargantuan stage. Four guitarists occasionally stroll out to flank her or to stand so she can lean against them. Are their instruments even plugged in? Probably so, wirelessly, but what they play sounds so specifically engineered that you’d never know. This is not the type of live music that sounds live. Is there a drummer? We see one briefly about an hour into the film. A little over two hours into the film, we get a peek at the keyboardists. Band members in this arena show seem more like the kitchen staff—we consume what they create, but Swift has designed the experience to keep them out of sight.

All eyes are on Swift, at all times. She has indefatigable backup dancers who twirl around her like a school of fish amplifying the superstar’s every moves, from slow-strut power phalanxes and louche prances to schoolgirl skips and wedding-aisle saunters. But her MVP go-to choreography is a signature array of facial gestures. Good Lord, this woman knows how to give face. Surprise! Astonishment! Mischief! Sass! Bemusement! All delivered with silky arm gestures, snappy hip cocks, and highly polished banter engineered to milk her audience into a frenzy. “Look at youuuuuu!” She declares in robotic amazement to the hyperventilating crowd. “This might be a soulmate situation.” Halfway through, after another rabid round of applause, she mouths silently, “For me?” Yes, Taylor, it’s for you.

Talking Heads, on the other hand, couldn’t be less pandering with their fans. If anything, the connections the bandmates seek are with each other. The original quartet of vocalist/guitarist David Byrne, bassist Tina Weymouth, drummer Chris Frantz, and guitarist Jerry Harrison, supersized themselves on their Speaking in Tongues tour with five additional members: Steve Scales on percussion, Alex Weir on guitar, Bernie Worrell on keyboards, and the sublime duo of Lynn Mabry and Ednah Holt on backing vocals.

Why specify the instruments that each one plays? Why name-check them at all? Because not to would be unthinkable after watching the film. The essence of Stop Making Sense is all about the virtuosity of each performer, and director Jonathan Demme makes sure to single each one of them out for their close-ups—candid moments that spotlight and accent the ways that their instruments embody and uplift each song. This is a celebration, to borrow a phrase from Byrne himself, of how music works.

Swift looks impeccable throughout her marathon show—tousled hair studiously primped, makeup perfectly smudge-free. She might glow, but her perspiration is minimal throughout the three-hours performance. Talking Heads, on the other hand, are hilariously drenched in sweat. Their electric set, funk-infused, r&b-saturated, slathered with African-rhythm bass lines and fuzzy synth squiggles, feels like a cardio workout. Byrne literally runs around the stage at one point in a full-tilt sprint, like a little boy who sucked up too many juice boxes. You can see how elated they are in their exhaustion, their bodies in a constant flow of movement that feels spontaneous in its vibrancy.

Swift’s show, an impressive spectacle by any measure, looks like the dry run for some inevitable all-AI performance of pre-recorded holograms a la ABBA. With the Eras Tour, she leans into the mechanical and jettisons spontaneity, performing her hook-heavy earworms about romance and heartache in all their many flavors with the melodic efficiency of a hit machine. That said, Swift’s bubblegum pop has probably proven more enduring than most because she’s a genuinely gifted songwriter with the wordplay of a poet. (Think you can tell Swift apart from Shakespeare? Just try this test.)

In my humble, middle-aged dad experience of the film, the only time when the film actually seemed to capture something close to sincerity was during her renowned acoustic set, a pair of songs that famously changes every performance. The film’s twofer du jour was “Our Song” and “You’re on Your Own, Kid,” neither of which I knew very well but hit me differently than the others in the show.

Swift’s attention to them was sharper, and her commitment more emotional. She seemed to relish them in a way that was missing from her otherwise locked-in playlist. And it reminded me a bit of Stop Making Sense, a movie that still holds up after 40 years because the performances it captures feel so present—and so joyful in their immediacy. Forget all the set decorations and the bombast. It was the only time during The Eras Tour that her live show actually felt alive.