Brush off your leather hipsters and crack open the Wild Turkey, this is the definitive rockumentary about The Doors. Indie filmmaker Tom DiCillo (who kicked off his career with Johnny Suede: a mental movie featuring Nick Cave as an albino with a gigantic quiff) jettisons the bullshit re-enactment and talking heads approach in favour of predominantly unseen footage plundered from private archives.

Playing on the myth that iconic frontman Jim Morrison didn’t die in 1971, DiCillo opens proceedings with the Lizard King driving through the desert, listening to news of his demise on the radio. The movie then rewinds to the band’s genesis, before letting Johnny Depp wax lyrical over trance-like footage of the group’s rapid rise to fame and the pitfalls that accompanied it. Meanwhile, zeitgeist imagery, such as the Vietnam War, political assassinations and Charles Manson, add colour and nostalgia.

Although this film encapsulates how groundbreaking The Doors’ music was, its main focus is Morrison – the force that propelled the band into the spotlight. His shamanic sensibility, bacchanalian behaviour, and ability to transform concerts into riots are here in all their savage glory. The spectacle is so stimulating that even people who hate The Doors and wish the dead, pissed-up poet would fuck off will find themselves hooked.