Taranji P. Henson
“THE COLOR PURPLE” My rating: B- (In theaters)
140 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13
Good but not great, the new musical version of “The Color Purple” is a largely faithful adaptation of Alice Walker’s Pulitzer-winning novel.
But what does it say that while watching it I was constantly reminded of Steven Spielberg’s 1985 non-musical version? Weirdly enough, the original film feels fresher to me than this new iteration.
The reason for this can be summed up, I believe, in two words: Whoopi Goldberg. Goldberg was so fantastically good, so consummately entertaining as the long-suffering Celie in the original that by comparison the musical’s Celie — “American Idol” winner Fantasia Barrino in her feature film debut — seems a bit meh.
Not bad, just meh. This Celie is always having things happen to her; she is more a pawn of fate than a discernible personality.
That’s not an issue with other members of the virtually all-black cast: Tara P. Henson’s Shug Avery, a lusted-after bluesy songstress, or Colman Domingo’s Mister, a study in toxic/stupid chauvinism, or Danielle Brooks’ Sofia, who tragically learns that her strong-willed independence is problematic in a white man’s world.
The story covers nearly a half century and Kris Bowers’ songs reflect most of the salient black musical styles of the era, from solo-guitar Delta blues to work chants, big band blues shouting, gospel, cakewalks and proto-soul. These numbers work fine within the framework of the story, but none struck me as particularly earworm-worthy. I didn’t go home humming them.
The production values offered by director Biltz Bazawule and his design staff are first-rate, as is the staging of most of the musical numbers. They are the film’s highlights.
In its final moments this “Color Purple” hit some of the emotional notes I’d been looking for…it took a while to get there.
Callum Turner (center)
”THE BOYS IN THE BOAT” My rating: B (In theaters)
124 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13
Let’s admit upfront that George Clooney’s “The Boys in the Boat” is a superficial drama densely packed with sports-movie cliches.
This makes it no less enjoyable.
For one thing, the cliches — training montages, a romantic subplot, the “big game” — are applied to the world of crew racing, the details of which most of us are ignorant.
So the film — a slightly fictionalized version of Daniel James Brown’s best-seller —immerses its audience in an exotic sport in which individual excellence and ambition must be subservient to the group effort.
When you’re rowing with eight other guys you do NOT want to stand out. It means you’re the broken cog in the well-oiled machine.
Mark L. Smith’s screenplay is set in the months leading up to the 1936 Berlin Olympics. Our nominal hero is Joe Rantz (Callum Turner), a pennyless University of Washington student who lives in a burned-out car in a Depression-Era homeless encampment in Seattle; he tries out for crew simply because it offers its rowers three squares a day and a roof overhead.
We learn the punishing sport along with Joe and his crewmates, most of whom never are developed beyond a first impression. Only a couple stand out.
Coxswain Bobby Moch (Luke Slattery) is a small guy capable of bullying/coaxing his muscled rowers to greatness. (Since coxswains don’t row, every pound they add to the load is a liability.) And there’s Don Hume (Jack Mulhern), the crew’s strongest member but so painfully shy his friends aren’t sure he can speak.
Somewhat more fleshed out is Coach Al Ulbrickson (Joel Edgerton), desperate to end his reputation as an also-ran in the crew world, and perhaps George Pocock (Peter Guinness), the old fellow who designs and builds the boats and becomes a sort of philosophic mentor to Joe.
There is considerable inspirational speechifying, and many an observation about rowing being more poetry than sport.
But if the characters are barely developed, the boys’ David-and- Goliath story and the care with which Clooney and Co. recreate the crew world are utterly captivating.
Cheer yourself sick.
Suleika Jaouad, Jon Batiste
“AMERICAN SYMPHONY” My rating: A- (Netflix)
104 minutes | MPAA rating: PG-13
Jon Batiste is a brilliant musician.
He’s an even better person.
That’s the takeaway from “American Symphony,” a documentary that originally was to chronicle Batiste’s efforts to write an orchestral piece but became about something far greater.
I knew going in that Matthew Heineman’s film would follow two tracks.
First, there is Batiste’s creative journey in writing and performing “American Symphony,” an opus not only for orchestra but for jazz musicians, operatic singers, chanting Native Americans, Hispanic folk artists…it’s a real kitchen sink approach.
And then there’s the second plot, centering on Batiste’s wife Suleika Jaouad, a musician and essayist who found herself battling the leukemia she had originally beaten years earlier.
The portrait of Batiste that emerges here is that of a deeply spiritual man who embraces compassion as a lifestyle, who after a day of rehearsing and arranging for his work’s debut at Carnegie Hall would spend the night at the bedside of his wife.
Watching I kept asking myself if under the same circumstances I could be so patient, caring and supportive.
Doubtful.
It’s not like Batiste is an incarnation of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. He gets exhausted. He admits to periods of depression. We see him having a texting session with his psychoanalyst.
But his innate goodness somehow always comes to the fore.
I cried easily and often watching “American Symphony,” a testament not only to human creativity but to humanity’s capacity for love.
It’s one of the best cinematic gift we’ll get this Christmas.
| Robert W. Butler
Butler's Cinema Scene 