In December 1983, a thin man in an ill-fitting white-gray suit walked onto a stage. He carries with him a guitar and a boombox, which he carefully set on the ground. He adjusted the guitar strap around his neck and looked out over his audience. “Hi,” he said. “I’ve got a tape I’d like to play.”

The man is David Byrne, the lead singer and lyricist of the visionary art-punk group Talking Heads. This strange ritual is how he begins every show of the band’s tour in support of “Speaking in Tongues,” the album that yielded the top-ten hit “Burning Down the House.”

On that night in December, there was something unique about Byrne’s greeting: he doesn’t just say “hi” to the audience in the room. Instead, he said it to a camera.

That camera, operated by “Blade Runner” cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth and directed by Jonathan Demme, filmed the entire show. The movie Demme made from that footage is called “Stop Making Sense.” It is the greatest film ever made, and it’s back in theaters with stunning remastered picture and sound from A24, overseen by Talking Heads multi-instrumentalist Jerry Harrison.

“Stop Making Sense” is distinct and unusual in the canon of rock documentaries. There is no rock star posturing from the band, there are no testimonials about Talking Heads’ cultural impact, and you can count the number of shots of ecstatic fans on one hand. It is not interested in manufacturing a mythology around the band or elevating them to the status of gods because it is not a movie about the band as celebrities. “Stop Making Sense” is a pure concert film. It is about the band as a collective of great artists coming together to make music in real-time.

The performance in “Stop Making Sense,” culled from a week’s worth of shows at Los Angeles’ Pantages Theater follows a near-narrative structure. Byrne performed the first song, “Psycho Killer,” accompanied only by his tape. With each subsequent track, another member of the band joined him until the full nine-piece band launched into “Burning Down the House.” As more band members appeared, the music increased in complexity, progressing from stripped-down acoustic cuts to the frantic final jam, “Crosseyed and Painless.”

As the pseudo-narrative progresses, Byrne, who started out awkward and stiff and almost timid-looking, loosened up. Once the full band was onstage, he danced like a madman, running laps around the stage while shouting, “This ain’t no party! This ain’t no disco!” in unison with his bandmates. He eventually dons an oversized, cartoonishly proportioned suit, which had become iconic. The suit emphasized the intense physicality of his performance as he moves
manically through “Girlfriend Is Better.”

The film’s editing is very important, as it carefully regulated the movie’s pace and focus. Demme and editor Lisa Day curated the images to ensure that no one band member takes precedence — Talking Heads’ stage is a democratic space where the rhythm guitarist is as essential as the lead singer. Jonathan Demme was, above all else, a filmmaker fascinated by
humanity, and that human focus is integral to the film’s success.

The film documented the interactions between band members that would be lost in a concert setting. Percussionist Steve Scales played hype man to a dancing Jerry Harrison. Drummer Chris Frantz beamed at his wife, bassist Tina Weymouth, as she performs. Keyboardist Bernie Worrell raised an eyebrow and knowingly stared into the camera as he played the iconic synth intro to “Once in a Lifetime.” These moments reveal the exuberance of the performance; this is not just a band of massively accomplished musicians but a band of people who find joy in creating and performing with each other.

The real key to understanding the magic of “Stop Making Sense,” though, is its relationship to the audience. Midway through “Girlfriend is Better,” David Byrne turned to the camera. He is sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, swept up in the mania of performance. As he registered that the camera was in his face, he extended his arm, pointing the microphone towards the audience as he stared expectantly.

“You can sing too,” he said.

I saw the movie on one of the largest cinema screens in the country, in an IMAX theater with sound comparable to that of a live concert. Weymouth’s funk-tinged bass lines and Frantz’s propulsive drumming shook the room, and when Byrne held out that microphone, the pent-up energy that had been building in the audience broke free.

“I got a girlfriend that’s better than that,” the crowd chanted, “but nothing is better than this.”