"Tommy" at 50: The Who’s Wild Rock Opera That Became a Cinematic Fever Dream

There’s a moment in Ken Russell’s "Tommy" when Ann-Margret, playing the long-suffering mother of a messianic pinball wizard, writhes in ecstasy across a pristine white bedroom room while being showered in baked beans, soap suds, and chocolate sauce. It’s absurd. It’s grotesque. It’s brilliant. And it’s "Tommy" in a nutshell.

Now celebrating its 50th anniversary, "Tommy" (1975) remains one of the most singularly bizarre and boundary-breaking rock films ever made. A riot of sound, color, and countercultural critique, "Tommy" is what happens when a boundary-pushing director adapts a boundary-breaking rock album and unleashes both onto a movie screen with no concern for taste, coherence, or restraint. Based on The Who’s 1969 concept album, "Tommy" is a cinematic rock opera that lives in a space all its own: somewhere between arthouse and midnight movie, between musical spectacle and trauma-soaked myth. In the hands of Ken Russell, who's equal parts provocateur and prophet, "Tommy" became a visually extravagant, musically relentless, and thematically jarring film that still dares its viewers to feel something, anything, even when it doesn’t make sense.

The Road to "Tommy": How Rock Operas Were Born

Before "Tommy" became a cultural flashpoint, the idea of a "rock opera" was still relatively new. Bands like The Pretty Things laid early groundwork with 1968’s "S.F. Sorrow," but it was The Who’s 1969 album "Tommy" that codified the format: a story-driven rock album, stitched together with recurring motifs, characters, and a linear plot that audiences could follow from track one to the finale.

The idea stemmed from Pete Townshend’s spiritual and artistic ambitions—he envisioned a work that could transcend traditional rock and serve as both narrative and allegory. Drawing from Eastern philosophy, postwar trauma, and the growing cult of rock celebrity, "Tommy" became a story about a boy rendered “deaf, dumb, and blind” by psychological wounds, who then becomes a messianic pinball prodigy and spiritual leader.

Its release was met with both commercial success and critical curiosity. The album helped elevate rock into the realm of high art, culminating in elaborate live performances and even a production at the Metropolitan Opera House. From there, it wasn’t a question of if it would become a movie, but who could possibly bring it to life.

Ken Russell Was Born for This

The 1970s were kind to directors who colored outside the lines, and Ken Russell had a habit of just setting the coloring books on fire. The Who initially wanted Stanley Kubrick. Kubrick passed. So did others. But Russell? Russell said yes. He was already known for flamboyant, hallucinatory films like "The Devils" and "The Music Lovers," which made him uniquely equipped to translate the abstract themes and rock spectacle of "Tommy" into cinematic form. A self-professed “musical maniac” with no fear of the grotesque or grandiose, he saw "Tommy" not as a film to tame, but one to detonate.

"Tommy" the film dispenses with traditional dialogue almost entirely, opting instead for a wall-to-wall rock soundtrack. Every character sings, screams, or wails their way through the story, backed by kaleidoscopic visuals that care little for continuity or subtlety.

Russell directs the film's structure essentially as a mosaic of music video-style sequences, each one designed as its own sensory blitz. There’s the war-torn opening, the kitschy holiday camp, the baked-bean breakdown, and that chilling Marilyn Monroe church revival. All are staged with a sort of fever-dream bravado that feels both satirical and sincere.

Decoding the Mayhem

Russell’s imagery is drenched in symbolism that critiques just as much as it dazzles–mirrors, pinballs, religious idols, cult rituals– because nothing about culture is safe from criticism in "Tommy." The mirror becomes a symbol of both self-denial and entrapment, a barrier Tommy must literally shatter to awaken and reclaim his identity. It also takes aim at consumerism (Ann-Margret swimming in household products), religious fervor (Eric Clapton’s congregation worshipping a Monroe idol), and celebrity culture (Tommy as rock-star savior turned spiritual leader).

But Russell doesn’t overshadow the source. Rather, he translates Townshend’s spiritual angst and cultural satire into visual terms. Underneath the madness is a story about trauma, repression, and the desperate need to feel something real. The film leans into the album’s aching plea to “see me, feel me, touch me, heal me” and gives it shape through Tommy’s search for connection and meaning. His silence, imposed on him as a child, becomes a metaphor for a generation numbed by violence and media overload.

And if you’re thinking, “This all sounds a bit much,” well, that’s kinda the point. "Tommy" isn’t trying to be subtle. It’s trying to slap you awake with color, sound, and a pinball machine the size of a cathedral.

The Cast That Played a Mean Pinball

If the visuals don’t hook you, the cast might. Roger Daltrey, making his film debut, brings eerie calm and explosive charisma to the title role. He’s hypnotic and oddly vulnerable, especially as he transforms from catatonic victim to wide-eyed, occasionally culty messiah. Daltrey had been The Who’s frontman, sure, but he proved here he could command the screen as powerfully as the stage.

Ann-Margret, a Hollywood veteran known for musicals like "Bye Bye Birdie" and "Viva Las Vegas," steps into unexpectedly dark and surreal territory with "Tommy." Playing Nora Walker, she charts a convincing emotional arc from fragile denial to manic devotion, anchoring some of the film’s most chaotic moments with sheer theatrical force. Her performance is fearless, unhinged in the best way, and helped land her both a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination.

Then there’s Tina Turner, who absolutely devours the screen as the Acid Queen, the psychedelic dominatrix-priestess who tries to cure Tommy through sex, drugs, and electroshock. Elton John stomps across a supersized pinball stage in five-foot-tall Doc Martens, delivering one of the most enjoyably absurd cameos in rock film history. Even Jack Nicholson shows up as a slick, singing doctor to prove that nobody was too respectable to get weird in 1975.

Reception, Legacy, and Why It Still Matters

When "Tommy" hit theaters in 1975, it was met with a mix of awe, confusion, and admiration. Critics praised its visual ambition but grappled with its chaotic tone. TIME Magazine called it a “rush of real excitement” and credited Russell with delivering “a film of irrepressible power and real daring.” Others weren’t quite as kind, dismissing it as style-over-substance sensory overload. But even the detractors admitted one thing: they’d never seen anything like it.

Over the decades, the legacy of "Tommy" has only grown. It helped pave the way for other concept-to-screen hybrids like Pink Floyd’s "The Wall" and Julie Taymor’s "Across the Universe." Baz Luhrmann owes at least one rhinestone-studded glove to it. Beyoncé’s "Lemonade" and Janelle Monáe’s "Dirty Computer" both live in its lineage of narrative music-as-film.

And on the weirder fringes, "Tommy" lives on as a cult object, a midnight movie, and a fever dream that future artists still mine for inspiration. It was weird before weird was marketable, and it’s still influencing everything from stage revivals to fashion editorials.

Why "Tommy" Still Rocks

At its best, "Tommy" is like a glitter bomb lobbed directly at the culture of polite cinema. It’s not neat. It’s not always tasteful. But it’s unforgettable. And that’s the point.

For all its chaos, "Tommy" tapped into the profound desires to feel, to scream, to break free of expectations and find meaning in madness. It’s about trauma, but it’s also about transcendence.

So the next time you hear someone singing “See Me, Feel Me,” remember that they’re not just humming a classic rock tune. They’re echoing a cinematic scream 50 years in the making.