A trivial example of a trivial subgenre--i.e., the rock-stars-screwing-around-backstage movie--COCKSUCKER BLUES apparently didn't even please its subject, Sir Mick Jagger and his fellow Stones; they gave it one of those "no resemblance to actual persons, etc." disclaimers (huh?), and went to court to prevent its release. Consequently, this film has been available chiefly through washed-out bootlegs, becoming over the years something of a hot underground item. As far as I'm concerned, the underground can keep it.A couple of decent performances can't keep COCKSUCKER BLUES from lapsing into navel-gazing tedium: it's mostly a lot of random hotel-room hijinx, with Keith Richards providing the film's highlight when he chucks a TV off the balcony--though some viewers might be wowed by the surprisingly graphic sex-and-drugs footage. (We're talking full nudity, male and female, as well as a few shooting-up bits.) As with Bob Dylan's very similar EAT THE DOCUMENT, it's interesting precisely to the extent that you dig the band; most viewers will quite properly find it self-indulgent and pointless. The movie reveals very little if anything about the Stones or their music. No one should be surprised to see the boys hanging out with drug-crazed groupies, like the hapless airhead interviewed here who complains that she lost custody of her daughter--just cause her mommy does tons of LSD ("She was born on acid"). The excessively shaky "you are there" camerawork doesn't help either.At least the closing credits are fun: among other oddities, television-destroyer Richards is listed as "TV Repairman." SOMEBODY involved with this movie was having fun--too bad little of it ended up on screen.