“COMING HOME” Hits HARD — Inside the Last Ride of the Prince of Darkness Himself

Well, grab your black eyeliner, your torn band tee from 1987, and the faint memory of that one time you thought about piercing your ear with a safety pin, because the Prince of Darkness is back—sort of.

“Ozzy Osbourne: Coming Home” is the one-hour gut-punch documentary that proves even the most bat-biting, reality-TV-stumbling, metal god of chaos has to hang up his leather pants eventually.

Yes, you read that right.

The man who once screamed at a live audience while covered in glitter and possibly other substances we’re not allowed to name on a family-friendly platform is calling it quits, and the world is not okay.

For four decades, Ozzy has been the patron saint of headbangers, weird uncles, and teenagers going through their “I’m different” phase, and now, in the year 2025, we’re watching him sign off like your granddad finally canceling his Facebook account.

The film doesn’t just show the last chapter of Ozzy’s career—it wraps you up in it, duct-tapes you to the speakers, and blasts it into your soul with the emotional subtlety of a chainsaw solo.

From the first minute, “Coming Home” feels like the most intimate backstage pass you never knew you wanted.

There’s vintage tour footage, shaky family videos from when Ozzy still had the energy to run across a stage instead of just swaying vaguely toward the microphone, and an avalanche of celebrity talking heads pretending not to cry while remembering their wildest Ozzy memories.

Slash pops in wearing sunglasses indoors, naturally, to recall “the night Ozzy poured champagne on his boots and said it was for luck. ”

Sharon Osbourne appears in full glam to remind everyone that she’s the only woman on Earth capable of turning a heavy metal frontman into a reality TV star and making it look like her idea.

And then there’s the fans—oh, the fans—who tell tales that sound more like urban legends.

One guy swears Ozzy once autographed his forehead with permanent marker, while another woman tearfully claims the singer saved her marriage “just by existing. ”

The documentary doesn’t shy away from the messy stuff either.

In one particularly sobering scene, Ozzy talks about the toll touring took on his health.

“You can’t scream for 90 minutes a night and expect to live forever,” he says, before laughing in a way that sounds suspiciously like he might still try anyway.

We get glimpses of his struggles with Parkinson’s, the heartbreak of canceled shows, and the quiet moments where he sits in his garden, staring at the flowers like they just reminded him of a bad acid trip from 1974.

“I never thought I’d see Ozzy holding a cup of tea instead of a bat,” says fictional rock historian and self-proclaimed “Metal Therapist” Dr.

Lars Thunderhammer, who wears eyeliner heavier than most goth teenagers.

“It’s like watching Thor trade his hammer for a knitting needle. ”

Of course, the filmmakers know this isn’t just a sad goodbye—it’s also a love letter to the chaos.

We see footage of Ozzy feeding pigeons in his backyard while wearing a robe, only to cut immediately to archival footage of him whipping a crowd into a frenzy with “Crazy Train. ”

There’s a surreal joy in watching him reflect on decades of debauchery with the calm, slightly confused energy of someone trying to remember if they left the oven on.

“I did a lot of things I can’t remember,” Ozzy admits at one point, “but the bits I do remember were bloody brilliant. ”

The big emotional wallop comes in the final 15 minutes, when Ozzy takes the stage for what will be his last-ever performance.

The crowd looks like a heavy metal United Nations—grizzled veterans with denim vests, teenagers who weren’t even born when “No More Tears” came out, and one guy in a full bat costume who probably regrets it halfway through.

The camera zooms in on Ozzy’s face as he launches into “Paranoid,” and you can see every year, every mile, every insane hotel bill etched into his voice.

Sharon stands in the wings, misty-eyed but smiling like she knows this is exactly how it’s supposed to end—not with a scandal or a burnout, but with her husband doing the one thing he’s always done better than anyone else: making people lose their minds in the best way possible.

Naturally, fans are already losing it on social media.

#PrinceOfDarknessForever is trending, with posts ranging from heartfelt (“Ozzy taught me it’s okay to be weird”) to deeply concerning (“Ozzy, please adopt me”).

Conspiracy theorists are also having a field day, suggesting that the documentary’s title “Coming Home” is actually code for a secret comeback tour in 2027, possibly involving holograms, fire-breathing goats, and Elon Musk.

“You don’t just stop being Ozzy,” one commenter insists.

“He’s immortal.

Or at least, like, 70% immortal. ”

The documentary’s director, fictional auteur Valentina Rage, says she wanted to show “the real Ozzy,” which is somehow both exactly what you expect and not at all what you expect.

“People think of him as this wild man,” she says in a behind-the-scenes interview, “but he’s also deeply kind, strangely shy, and obsessed with gardening.

The man can talk about roses for hours. ”

This revelation will surely cause a spike in sales of gardening gloves among middle-aged men who still think “Bark at the Moon” is the peak of human achievement.

In true tabloid fashion, the release of “Coming Home” has already stirred up a ridiculous amount of drama.

Critics are bickering over whether it’s too sentimental, not sentimental enough, or just a shameless cash grab designed to sell commemorative Ozzy-branded teapots (which, by the way, are real and available for pre-order).

Some diehard fans claim the film ignores the darker parts of his career, while others say they’re just grateful to see him vertical and coherent.

One particularly savage reviewer from a fictional site called Loud & Petty summed it up with: “It’s like if VH1’s Behind the Music had a baby with The Great British Bake Off, and the baby had eyeliner and possibly rabies. ”

But love it or hate it, there’s no denying “Coming Home” marks the end of something big.

Ozzy Osbourne isn’t just a musician—he’s a cultural relic, a living meme, and possibly the last person alive who can wear a floor-length black coat without looking like a magician at a kid’s birthday party.

This is a man who has survived decades of drugs, feuds, and dubious fashion choices, only to retire on his own terms, surrounded by family, fans, and a suspicious number of dogs.

The film closes with Ozzy walking away from the stage, his silhouette framed by blinding lights, while the crowd chants his name like a battle hymn.

There’s no cheesy narration, no dramatic music swell—just the sound of thousands of voices saying goodbye to the man who made metal weird, loud, and unforgettable.

It’s raw, it’s real, and it’s the kind of ending that’ll make even the most cynical viewer want to put on a leather jacket and scream into the void one last time.

So here we are, folks.

The bat-biting, dove-snapping, reality-show-mumbling era is over, and all we can do is raise a glass (or a teacup) to the man who gave us four decades of pure, unfiltered madness.

“Ozzy Osbourne: Coming Home” isn’t just a documentary—it’s a eulogy for chaos, a love letter to the loud, and a gentle reminder that even the Prince of Darkness eventually needs to sit down and rest his knees.

And if you think this is truly the end, well… as Ozzy himself would say, “Don’t count me out just yet.”

Because if history has taught us anything, it’s that you can take the man out of metal, but you can’t take the metal out of the man.

And somewhere, right now, Ozzy is probably already planning the next thing that will make all of us scream, “What the hell was that?!”—and love him for it.