Punk is tragic. Its rise and fall is the definitive proof that no amount of resistance to mass culture cannot be commercialized and re-consumed. Music producer, Mark Reeder’s, documentary on the punk scene in West Berlin at the end of the century is too jovial to be disheartened by this. Reeder is one of those para-musicians: an eternal fan, someone who graduated from schlepping gear to organizing gigs and finally ended up with his own TV show in his native UK. But Reeder has no handle on the meaning of a doomed counter-culture in a tiny inlet of the Western world in a sea of the Soviet East.

Punk was a statement of anti-style, of radical nothingness, before it inevitably got incorporated into the culture as pure style — a status quo position of routine, petulant, adolescent defiance and ‘punk’ became  merely another type of consumer. Reeder is a bastion of the latter. He cheers on a pop act, Nena, who copped the punk look and sang glossy pop — after all, she was successful outside of Germany! While a Berliner punk in an interview says he believes the city is impossible to film, Reeder chuckles on the voice over that one just needs to get into the best clubs.

The composition of the documentary says everything about Reeder’s understanding of punk. At first, the footage seems to be entirely fictional interspliced with some shots of the real West Berlin of the 70s cum 80s. Maybe some of it was taken by Reeder in the moment, but it’s anyone’s guess which shots are. Gradually, you learn that Reeder had starred in many low-budget films as he became more well-known in Germany. So some of the footage is historical in that it was filmed in roughly the same era, but it is being used as a stand-in for his real life. Reeder seems to see no problem with trying to capture his life there with an aestheticized, false image of reality. The style that emerged from the scene as a result of the ideology was punk’s downfall, because aesthetics can be sold. But a stylized representation seems to suit Reeder perfectly in summarizing West Berlin.

As an outsider and fan, Reeder consumed and purveyed the scene, but gave no thought to how this compromised the object of his fascination. As West Berlin lost its Soviet surroundings and the artificial conditions that made possible a destitute life of artistic creation evaporated, Reeder’s rollicking narration charges on. He is not unnerved by the appearance of David Hasselhoff or the dawn of techno. It’s just another cool party to go to. After all, punk was viciously strangulated as a protest movement with its stylish accouterments incorporated into mass culture like a trophy being carved out of a corpse. But coolness? Cool is forever. Don’t despair, there’s still a party going on somewhere in Berlin.