“My work is not me,” utters David Bowie about three quarters into , the latest music documentary from : director Brett Morgen. It’s a startling revelation as up to that point, we mostly see Bowie, as the consummate performer: On stage in London at peak Ziggy Stardust—in various guises but always flame-orange hair, kabuki-make up, and skinny unitard—singing over deafening screams, whilst outside emotional fans profess their adoration to him. It’s pandemonium again when he performs at packed arenas Stateside. One Los Angeles clip shot inside a limousine has a gaunt and cocaine-addled Bowie admit that he detests the
