As far as cinematic hagiographies go, Ethan Silverman’s “Angelheaded Hipster” should gratify fans of Marc Bolan (1947-77), the frizzy-haired mastermind behind a 1970s glam rock outfit, T. Rex. The film has an impressive array of talking heads, including Sir Elton John, Ringo Starr, and, through archival footage, David Bowie. There are interpretations of T. Rex songs by Nick Cave, Kesha, Macy Gray, and Lucinda Williams. Remember “Bang a Gong (Get It On)”? U2 puts it through the wringer with Sir Elton on keyboards.

If you came of age in the United States during the 1970s, “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” is likely the only song you know by T. Rex: It reached no. 10 on the Billboard Hot 100. Bolan’s paean to his “dirty sweet” inamorata is impossible to resist, what with its propulsive rhythm, squawking riff, and sweeping sing-along chorus. The insinuating swagger of the lyrics is tempered by Bolan’s fey delivery. Rarely has macho been quite as denatured. 

T. Rex is considered a one-hit wonder on this side of the pond, but the band was hot stuff in its native Britain. Bolan and percussionist Mickey Finn began their careers with a twee species of folk rock, combining an unapologetic dependence on Chuck Berry with whimsy stemming from the poems of Edward Lear and Alice’s forays through Lewis Carroll’s fecund imagination. Unicorns, fairies, and modest sales typified T. Rex’s early musings. The group had an out-of-left-field hit in 1970 with “Ride a White Swan,” an infectious ditty replete with druids, tattooed gowns, and a reference to a pagan rite of summer, Beltane.

A significant component of “Angelheaded Hipster” is devoted to the recording of a tribute album, “Angelheaded Hipster: The Songs of Marc Bolan and T. Rex,” overseen by an eclectic music producer, Hal Wilner. He had headed similar ventures dedicated to an Italian film maestro, Nino Rota; two American jazz musicians, Thelonius Monk and Charles Mingus; a German composer, Kurt Weill, and songs from Disney films. The album dedicated to T. Rex is similarly wide-ranging in musical talent. Wilner’s taste was catholic and his ability to corral talent impressive. 

Will Mr. Silverman’s film bring greater acknowledgement to a performer who was, as it is reiterated any number of times during “Angelheaded Hipster,” ahead of his time? As a progenitor of gender-bending imagery and a flamboyant fashion sense, Bolan went nose-to-nose with Bowie, the former’s glitter-splayed whimsy vying against the latter’s theatrical contrivance.

That Bowie conquered America and, in doing so, achieved a greater market share put a temporary wedge in their friendly correspondence. T. Rex’s ninth album, “Zinc Alloy and the Hidden Riders of Tomorrow,” was an attempt to top Bowie’s seminal album, “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.” It didn’t.

Fame is a flukey thing, but so, too, is talent, and it’s worth considering the scope of T. Rex’s music — its structural narrowness, say, or the brittle nature of Bolan’s lyrical fascinations. His early death in an automobile accident put an obvious stop on his development, but Mr. Silverman’s documentary doesn’t entirely forestall a sense that Bolan had spent his artistic gift. That Bolan didn’t live long enough to put away childish things places a pall over the film. “Angelheaded Hipster” is, in the end, more a requiem than a celebration.