Jeff Buckley came pre-loaded with myth: Tim Buckley's estranged son, blessed with a voice and cursed with the expectations that came with it. Any documentary about him has to fight its way out from under that.
This one mostly manages it. I got into Buckley backwards, through Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk, so the myth reached me before the man did. The film's best move is reversing that order: rehearsal tapes, off-cuts, the ordinary scaffolding holding up the halo. The voice is still ridiculous — somewhere between a wounded animal and a cathedral — and somehow that description doesn't embarrass itself. It works best when the music does the talking, rather than another talking head reaching for "ethereal."
Where it wobbles is the reverence. It spends more time dusting the shrine than asking who built it, and I wanted more on those Memphis demos — a future caught horribly mid-sentence. Even so, it's absorbing, often lovely, rarely dull. A warm portrait that finds the man beneath the myth, then politely puts most of the halo back where it found it.