‘Spinal Tap II: The End Continues’ Review: An Affectionate, Oddball Encore Forty-One Years Later

A cult movie among cult movies, and for many the founding text of the mockumentary as we know it, This Is Spinal Tap (1984) not only pioneered a format that’s still being mined today—without it there’d be no The Office, Parks & Recreation, and countless offshoots—but it also stands as a bona fide comedy classic, one of the funniest films of the past half-century. And while both the original and this new sequel are directed by Rob Reiner, the true creative force behind the band is Christopher Guest, co-writer and co-star of both films, and the filmmaker who would later build an entire career around the mockumentary form.

After the massive success of the original film came tours, concerts, albums, and assorted spin-offs, but over time it seemed as if the whole Spinal Tap concept had quietly faded away—not just because Reiner was reluctant to touch sequels, but more importantly because the original creators were locked in a long, bitter legal dispute with the rights holders of the 1984 film. That conflict dragged on for years and only ended recently with a financial settlement. Now that the profits are finally theirs, the band has decided to reunite—both in real life and in fiction.

For the uninitiated, a recommendation: watch This Is Spinal Tap. If you can’t, here’s a quick synopsis that still can’t convey how funny the film actually is. “Spinal Tap” is the name of a fictional 1970s British heavy-metal band—a parody mash-up of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and others—followed by filmmaker Marty DiBergi (Reiner himself) during a disastrous 1980s reunion tour. Everything goes wrong: half-empty shows, constant internal fighting, endless lineup changes (especially their notorious drummer issues), and egos so inflated they can’t see the world closing in on them. Along the way come absurd misadventures, brilliantly deadpan gags, and several truly iconic lines.

Spinal Tap II: The End Continues brings back the band’s three core members in the present day, forty years after the original film but fifteen years after their final breakup. Since 2009, for reasons no one can quite articulate, they haven’t spoken to each other. But when DiBergi learns that the late manager’s daughter has discovered a contract guaranteeing one last unfulfilled show, he takes it upon himself to track them down and try to reunite them.

And so we return to the band, one member at a time. Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) now sells cheese—or barters cheese for guitars by weight—in a tiny English village; David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) composes podcast jingles and on-hold music; and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer) has changed careers entirely and now runs a curious museum dedicated to… glue. DiBergi gets them all in the same room with surprisingly little drama, and soon the trio is rehearsing in New Orleans for what will truly be their farewell concert.

From there the film plunges them back into confusion, ridiculous misunderstandings, and assorted mishaps as they search for a new drummer—starting big and auditioning celebrities, all of whom are terrified of the “curse” that killed the previous eleven in bizarre accidents. They cross paths with famous musicians (Paul McCartney and Elton John make the most notable cameos), and discover that their former collaborators (Fran Drescher and Paul Shaffer in the original, among others) have long since moved on. A new batch of agents and promoters enters the picture, and the band quickly proves they’re just as unpredictable and dysfunctional as ever.

Spinal Tap II includes plenty of winks to the original, and its dry, detail-driven humor—more British in tone, relying on linguistic subtleties and blink-and-you’ll-miss-them jokes—leans more toward Guest’s own films than Reiner’s broader, slightly more populist comedic sensibility. In Waiting for Guffman, Best in Show, and A Mighty Wind—all highly recommended—Guest skewered the worlds of amateur theatre, dog shows, and folk revivalists. This sequel draws heavily on that low-key, improvisational style, sustained less by punchlines than by an undercurrent of persistent, understated parody.

That naturalistic, casual tone can feel muted at times, especially considering that since the American version of The Office, the parody “fake documentary” has grown increasingly elaborate and spectacular. But the film still works—at least in stretches. It may not be the bold, explosive comedy some hoped for after a forty-year wait, but what was once an oddball, one-of-a-kind concept is now commonplace across formats. In a world of bizarre reality shows and absurd social-media videos, the cringe that Spinal Tap generated in 1984 is now part of everyday entertainment. The same is true of the “aging rocker” archetype—half tragic, half endearing. Nothing will ever top Ozzy in The Osbournes, a show that could only exist because This Is Spinal Tap existed first.

The clearest issue with the film is that it loses momentum as it goes, reaching its supposedly explosive finale in rather anticlimactic fashion. One senses that even the creators grew a little tired as the production wore on, and that the initial thrill of the reunion faded over time—both on screen and possibly off. But that doesn’t stop the sequel from delivering a handful of unforgettable moments and proving once again that Guest, McKean, and company still know how to make parody with heart, without turning their characters into pathetic caricatures. The now-septuagenarian metalheads of Spinal Tap may no longer be at the height of their powers, but the film isn’t interested in mocking them. Their drummers, yes—but those guys are fair game.