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American
Legend
By
Shawn Stone
Ray
Directed
by Taylor Hackford
It’s hard to underestimate the importance of Ray Charles to
our musical culture. At one point in the new biopic Ray,
Charles (Jamie Foxx) explains to his wife that he’s trying
to do “something new in music and business.” Whether merging
gospel and R&B, or country music and soul, he was a visionary
who understood the connections between seemingly disparate
forms of music—connections obscured, mostly, by the dictates
of corporate and racial boundaries. And, as a composer, he
could transcend these genres and make something new in a way
that earlier figures (like, say, Bing Crosby) could not.
The odd and wonderful thing about Ray is that the film
not only conveys this insight into Ray Charles’ music, it’s
an entertaining, dramatic portrait of the man himself. You’ve
read it before, no doubt, but believe the hype: Jamie Foxx
gives a stunning performance as Charles. Yes, he was one of
the bright spots on the ensemble TV comedy In Living Color,
but, then again, so was Jim Carrey—and Carrey can’t give up
his treasured mannerisms for any price, even an Oscar (which
Foxx is being tipped for). Foxx also stole many scenes from
Will Smith in Ali, but that wasn’t exactly hard work.
Foxx immerses himself in the role; if you ever saw Charles
in concert, or just grew up with him as a frequent performer
on TV variety shows, you’ll be amazed.
The film begins as Charles leaves his Florida home in the
late ’40s, and follows a more-or-less straight chronological
path through the years, with pertinent flashbacks to his childhood.
We see how his fierce mother (Sharon Warren) toughened him
up to face the world sightless; how he found his musical voice;
how he nearly wrecked his life with dope; and how he became
rich and famous by trusting his own vision.
Of course, as he was a musician, there’s plenty of woman trouble.
There’s his innocent, country-girl wife Della Bea (Kerry Washington),
and “road wives” Margie (Regina King) and Mary Ann (Aunjanue
Ellis). As usual, the sinners prove more interesting than
the virtuous, because screenwriters are always more interested
in the sinners. (And King, in particular, is a strong presence.)
There have been a number of times in his career when director
Taylor Hackford has lived up to the first part of his last
name; he has certainly made his fair share of overbaked potboilers.
That said, he has also coaxed a number of usually preposterous
actors into seeming almost human (think Richard Gere in An
Officer and a Gentleman), and toned down the method excesses
of others (Jennifer Jason Leigh and Kathy Bates in Dolores
Claiborne). Hackford’s a solid, old-school craftsman with
a killer instinct for the big moment.
Hackford’s talent for the latter pays off a few times in Ray,
most notably in the scene where Charles and the band first
perform the breakthrough hit “What’d I Say.” The joy of discovery
and creation is imagined with just the right combination of
art and showbiz. (And showbiz is as essential as art in understanding
who Charles was.) His careful craftsmanship holds the film
together, as the many flashbacks and expository montages clear
up points in Charles’ story, not confuse them.
Happily, the filmmakers used Charles’ own recordings for the
soundtrack. That you don’t really even think about this after
the first few scenes is the best indication of what Foxx has
accomplished.
 The
Best and Brightest
The
Incredibles
Directed
by Brad Bird
There are two great moments, early on, that set up The
Incredibles as something slightly darker than, say, Monsters,
Inc. First, Bob Parr (Craig T. Nelson) groans about having
to go to his son Dash’s (Spencer Fox) “moving-up ceremony.”
“He’s going from the third to the fourth grade, for crissake!”
wails this once mighty superhero, formerly known as Mr. Incredible
but now—thanks to skyrocketing malpractice rates, an anti-superhero
feeding frenzy and inevitable age and domesticity—treading
water in a sea of purposelessness as an insurance adjuster.
Wife Helen (Holly Hunter), herself formerly known as Elastigirl,
reprimands him, but Bob maintains his position that “they”
are elevating mediocrity. Later, Dash bewails that he is forbidden
to use his own superhuman talent, which is running faster
than the speed of light. Again, the thoroughly domesticated
Helen advises that to use those powers would be akin to bragging
that Dash is better than everybody else, while in reality,
“everybody is special.” To this, young Dash mutters, “which
means nobody is.”
A world in which superheroes are denied the right to use their
powers, even for societal good? A movie that openly implies
that such baby-boomer driven phenomena as moving-up ceremonies
and supervised play are somewhat evil? Toto, we’re not in
Kansas anymore. The Incredibles is something of a labor
of love for writer-director Brad Bird, whose previous movie,
the gem The Iron Giant, was too little seen. As much
a paean to the struggles of underappreciated artists as it
is a treatise on modern domesticity, The Incredibles
is probably the first Pixar and maybe the first Disney release
that addresses the complexities of middle-aged despair and
raw envy.
When Bob gets a call from a mysterious stranger named Mirage
(Elizabeth Pena), offering him a chance to get back in the
superhero game, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Not only
is he dying a slow death in suburbia, despite his genuine
love for Helen and the kids—including teen Violet (Sarah Vowell)
and baby Jack-Jack—but he’s just lost his job. Adding insult
to injury is the fact that old crony Lucius (Samuel T. Jackson),
formerly known as Frozone, is tiring of their weekly undercover
attempts to right wrongs with the help of a police scanner.
So Bob begins the process of rediscovering the joys of being
Mr. Incredible, so much so that he gets back in shape and
becomes a better husband and dad. Then, when Syndrome (Jason
Lee), a would-be superhero, kidnaps Bob, it’s up to Helen,
the kids and Frozone to save him.
There are the obligatory scenes of mass destruction that provide
myriad ways to show just how amazing our superheroes really
are. Elastigirl, for instance, can extend her body through
several doorways at once and wind her stringy arms around
corners—there is a great slapstick scene in which she gets
stuck in two separate doors and has to use her wits to disarm
several assailants. But she can also stretch her body to form
a sort of boat or parachute to protect her kids. In the course
of the action, Violet, whose special gift is the ability to
become invisible and create impermeable force fields, is transformed
from a painfully shy adolescent to a grounded and happy teen.
Only Frozone, who shoots walls of ice from his wristbands,
doesn’t get enough of a chance to show us his stuff.
The
Incredibles is thoroughly entrancing, and it pulsates
with a very real emotion that most viewers will recognize
as something very close to home. It’s refreshing to see a
movie that doesn’t prattle on about how we’re all the same
and other politically correct sentiments, but actually questions
the value of deemphasizing individual strengths and talents.
—Laura
Leon
You
Take More Than You Give
Alfie
Directed
by Charles Shyer
As far as pointless remakes go, Alfie is on a par with
Psycho for total irrelevance (make that irreverence
if you’re a fan of old-school Brit cinema). How could the
1966 original, starring Michael Caine as a ruthless womanizer,
possibly have been improved upon? Although Caine’s Alfie was
a brute who referred to the women in his life as “it” and
encouraged their servitude, the archetype still exists—only
the clothes, the attitude, and the lingo have changed. And
that, apparently, was the sole inspiration for a remake, with
Jude Law ably stepping in as the strapping, golden-haired
seducer. Directed by Charles Shyer, a specialist in slick
updates (The Parent Trap, Father of the Bride),
the 2004 Alfie may be kinder and gentler, but that’s
not so much a reflection of less misogynist times as it is
the director’s insipid commercial instincts.
The new and improved Alfie (he’s got a superb tailor) is upgraded
from working-class Cockney to service-industry Eurotrash.
Having immigrated to Manhattan in search of beautiful women,
new Alfie finds himself a kid in a carnal candy shop. No desperate
housewives or groveling waifs for him; his most serious relationship
is with a stunning manic-depressive (Sienna Miller) who parties
even harder than he does. Not only that, but Alfie’s narcissism
fits right in with the turbo-charged consumerism of present-day
Manhattan. “I’m a fashion whore,” he proudly announces by
way of an introduction. As in the original, he talks directly
to the camera, with all the braggadocio of a successful studmuffin,
and very little of the original’s moral bewilderment. Today’s
Alfie is aware of the consequences of his devious behavior,
but morality simply isn’t an issue anymore. And neither is
single motherhood or abortion or, miraculously enough, AIDS
or STDs. Despite an obligatory glimpse of a condom wrapper,
it could be the swinging ’60s all over again. So what’s this
Alfie all about, then?
Well, it’s about a great-looking guy with great-looking clothes
in a great-looking city (the cafes, shops, and streetscapes
of Manhattan are shot with the same meticulous attention as
Alfie’s casually tousled hair). As his heat quotient cools,
Alfie pauses for a little soul searching—never minding that
Caine’s Alfie wouldn’t know where to begin looking even if
he were so inclined. That our shallow but undeniably charming
host is concerned only with staving off loneliness comes off
as somehow more reptilian than the original’s blindly selfish
impulses. He also talks too much, indulging in a running commentary
even while in flagrante in the backseat of the limo he drives.
Oddly enough, Shyer’s freewheeling makeover (Alfie gets it
on with a cocktail waitress on a pool table) is less sexy
than the censorious original.
Bill Naughton’s astringent original screenplay has been lightened
up with the sparkling glibness of a superior sitcom (by sitcom
writer Elaine Pope), and simultaneously dragged out with a
sudsy emphasis on Alfie’s emotional missteps: Almost everyone
gets teary-eyed at some point, and that’s a drag the original
wouldn’t have stood for, even if he did have sex with his
best friend’s girlfriend, as does this Alfie. Although the
change in locale and some of the plot tweaks are adroit, Shyer
mishandles the most important scenes. Alfie’s long-suffering
standby girlfriend (Marisa Tomei) opts out of the relationship
out of apparent boredom rather than resolution, and his older
trophy lover (Susan Sarandon, rehashing her Bull Durham
role) is a real trouper, robbing the story of its climactic
comeuppance (supplied in the original by a still-bombshell
Shelley Winters). Naughton’s eviscerating when-monster-meets-monster
moment is softened into a mild ego bruise, leaving Alfie a
little lonelier but no wiser.
And to belabor the comparisons (because what other point is
there?), let’s just say that Mick Jagger’s geriatric soundtrack
emphatically does not give Dionne Warwick’s theme song a run
for the money. About the only thing in the new Alfie
that does measure up is his pinstripe suit.
—Ann
Morrow
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