Reeling Backward: "Lady Sings the Blues" (1972)

 

I decided to check out "Lady Sings the Blues" for two reasons: it's out in a gorgeous new Blu-ray edition, and it's the first major biopic of jazz icon Billie Holiday, preceding "The United States vs. Billie Holiday" by nearly 50 years.

I thought Andra Day was terrific in "United States," though the film is somewhat slapdash and takes a lot of liberties with historical fact, up to and including concocting a romance between Holiday and the federal agent who was supposed to be keeping tabs on her.

Turns out "Lady" isn't that much more accurate, despite being based on her own autobiography, co-written with William Dufty. It tracks her fight to the top in painstaking detail, wallows in her drug addiction for the middle and third acts and then skates through the last dozen years or so of her life in hasty order.

It also omits her first two husbands, centering only on the figure of Louis McKay, the part played by Billy Dee Williams. The movie -- screenplay by Suzanne de Passe, Chris Clark, Terence McCloy -- pretends as if he was with her from her very start, when in fact they only knew each other during the last few years of her life.

McKay is depicted in the movie as a slick businessman with some shady aspects who nevertheless acts as Billie's guardian and soulmate. Most accounts say he was really a two-bit louse who sucked money and attention from Billie. He was also reportedly physically and emotionally abusive, a characteristic she unfortunately seemed to share with all of her other relationships.

Williams is in fact the best thing about the movie, and his scenes with Billie usually have a strong emotional tug. He plays McKay as a smooth operator who first sees her as a conquest, but comes to genuinely care for her and becomes invested in being her rescuer when she hits her downward spiral.

Between the domestic violence, opioid addiction and being hounded by the feds -- not to mention being raped as a teenager -- it's no wonder Billie Holiday sang sad songs without equal. 

My biggest problem with the movie is Diana Ross in the lead role. Despite earning an Oscar nomination (the film also received four others, including adapted screenplay, art direction, costumes and music), Ross just isn't convincing as Holiday. Certainly she pales in comparison to Day, though I may be biased by having seen the more contemporary performance first.

Ross doesn't look anything like Holiday, which is not uncommon in biographical films. But she doesn't sound anything like Holiday, which is bewildering.

Holiday's phrasing of lyrics and bending of notes made her sound instantly recognizable. She was influenced by the instrumentals of jazz, and wanted her voice to be able to sound like a sliding trumpet, dithering saxophone or blaring trumpet as the case may be. Her singing style is central to her iconography.

Instead, Diana Ross sings like... Diana Ross. She's a fine singer of course, but coming from a pop background she sounds like a little girl compared to Holiday's resonance. There's no basement in her voice, just the balcony.

I'm reminded of David Oyelowo playing Martin Luther King Jr. in "Selma" and seemingly going out of his way to give his speeches in a manner unlike MLK. Like Billie Holiday, their voices rang out through the ages in a very distinctive way, not just what they said but how they said it. Eschewing that sound is a fatally bad choice.

Ross does a lot of singing in the movie, so every time she opens her mouth we're reminded that we're very much not listening to Billie Holiday. Her stage presence is a pretty good simulation, though, mimicking the stoop-shouldered way Holiday often performed, head bowed as if almost in reverence of her own talent.

The film was directed by Sidney J. Furie, who's had quite a career including some high-toned projects like this and "The Ipcress File" as well as drek such as "Superman IV: The Quest for Peace" and "Iron Eagle" and its sequel. He's continued to make films steadily since the late 1950s and, closing in on age 90, has another one in post-production. 

He's got a good feel for the character scenes, though some of them tend to be a little too loose and improvisational, especially in the second half. This is especially prevalent in the scenes with Richard Pryor as Piano Man, Billie's musical usher and intimate friend -- also a purveyor of her "stuff," as she calls her narcotics.

She was initially hooked on drugs via Harry, the smiling, blond-headed white musician played by Paul Hampton who initially encouraged Billie to come out on the road along with his partner, Reg Hanley (James Callahan), who's more of a straight shooter who genuinely loves and respects her because of her talent. 

Harry likens the dope to simple medicine, noting that if you get hit by a car the first thing they do when they take you to the hospital is pump you full of morphine. Of course, when the going gets tough and Billie gets hooked, Harry is nowhere to be found.

The film treats Billie's famous 1947 arrest as its framing device, opening with her being thrown into a padded cell to go cold turkey, with the story eventually catching up to that point. There's nothing about the trial or subsequent legal troubles, however, and there's no grand conspiracy to keep her down because of the song "Strange Fruit," an allegory on lynching. 

I noticed the songs in the movie tend to be very short, some of them barely a minute. They're the actual famous Billie Holiday tunes, though usually cut down to just a couple of stanzas and the chorus. I often find my attention wandering in musical movies where we keep having to sit through four- or five-minute complete songs -- that certainly was the case with "United States." But I was equally irritated by getting these little sample-sized versions.

In the end, "Lady Sings the Blues" takes the life of a legitimate legend and works hard to distill it down to the usual cliches: artist comes from nothing, displays phenomenal ability, encounters various obstacles combined with personal flaws, and is undone by them. We've seen it in "A Star Is Born" -- all the iterations -- and countless other showbiz stories.

I probably could've swallowed all of that if we actually got a meaningfully close portrayal of Billie Holiday. Instead we get Diana Ross, which ain't bad, but that's something else.

Reeling Backward: "The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars & Motor Kings" (1976)

"The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars & Motor Kings" is a notable watershed film, and not just for having one of the longest titles anyone has ever seen.

This 1976 drama/comedy highlighted largely forgotten portions of the history of cinema, baseball and the city of Indianapolis. For starters, it's one of the few modern mainstream movies you can point to in which every single major character is black. A few white people appear, but they're tiny supporting parts or backgrounders (often stepping forward to spew a racial epithet and then leave).

Even the villainous roles are filled by black actors, from the odious power-hungry team owner to the grim-faced goons he employs to keep the uppity players in line. 

Billy Dee Williams, James Earl Jones and Richard Pryor provide the star power, with the likes of Stan Shaw and Mabel King rounding out a strong supporting cast.

A lot of people know about Negro League baseball, but not how it ended. With the integration of the sport accelerating rapidly, the league largely ended as a competitive endeavor by the mid-1950s. Many operations continued as barnstorming entertainment spectacles, however, often featuring ex-Negro League stars like Satchel Paige.

Writer William Brashler based his novel on one such outfit, the Indianapolis Clowns. The  Clowns were the last surviving team of the Negro Leagues, and continued performing exhibition games until the mid-1980s. A young Hank Aaron played on the team before being called up to the big leagues. The Clowns operated as sort of a baseball version of the Harlem Globetrotters, doing tricks and jokes in between the baseball, fully living up to their name.

(If you're offended at the team moniker, remember that a lot of Negro League teams had overtly racial names: the Birmingham Black Barons, Atlanta Black Crackers, Winfield Devils, etc.)

Writing partners Hal Barwood and Matthew Robbins were brought in to turn the book into a script. They had just gotten their big break with "The Sugarland Express" for Steven Spielberg; other notable credits include "MacArthur" and the immortal "Dragonslayer."

Director John Badham started out in television, and this film marked his feature film directorial debut. The following year he made "Saturday Night Fever," and would go on to a busy career in the 1980s and '90s, including "Short Circuit," "WarGames," "Stakeout" and "Blue Thunder." Closing in on age 80, he's still busy in TV today, including directing a number of episodes of the series "Supernatural."

It should be noted the entire creative team was white guys, though Berry Gordy served as producer for the film, which was a joint production of his Motown Productions and Universal Pictures.

Set in 1939, the story is about a pair of Negro League stars who chafe at the onerous treatment of their team owners and resolve to start their own exhibition team, with all proceeds split equally amongst the members. Williams plays Bingo Long, a veteran star pitcher loosely based on Satchel Paige. He's in his prime but feels the pull of the years, and jumps at the chance to have something of their own.

The impetus is the latest assault by St. Louis Ebony Aces owner Sallison Potter (Ted Ross), a mortuary man who gives his players only slightly better treatment than the stiffs who come in his door. Rainbow (DeWayne Jessie), a young hitter, is knocked out cold by a beanball pitch and rendered unable to play or even speak. Potter collects $5 each from the pay of each player to buy the bus ticket home for Rainbow, without even so much as a thank-you or may-I.

Bingo's best friend is Leon Carter (Jones), a catcher and power hitter inspired by Josh Gibson. He's a bit older and a bit wiser, and first plants the seeds of this diamond field rebellion by quoting from W. E. B. Du Bois about controlling the means of production.

Before you know it, they're all piled into Bingo's fancified jalopy, with rainbow-colored uniforms and a two-stepping march worked up for the ride into each new town to draw a crowd and parade them to the baseball field. Walter Murchman (John McCurry) is also invited along even though all the other players hate him, because he has the second car they'll need to get around.

Other All-Stars include "Fat" Sam Popper (Leon Wagner), who's barely even pudgy by today's standards; Champ Chambers (Jophery C. Brown); Tony Burton as Isaac, a bald-headed player whose duties on his previous team included catering to the very personal demands of the female team owner; and "Esquire Joe" Calloway (Stan Shaw), a 19-year-old wunderkind they pick up along the road, who ends up being called up to a white farm team in the end.

Pryor has a supporting role as Charlie Snow, who straightens his hair and tries to pass himself off as a Cuban named Carlos Nevada, figuring he'll have a better shot at breaking into the white leagues that way. He serves mostly as comedic relief, including a bit where he attempts to lay a white prostitute and gets chased around the hotel Keystone Cops-style.

But Charlie/Carlos is laid low about halfway through when Potter's mercenaries corner him under the grandstand. The film is an interesting mix of laugh-a-thon hi jinks and more sobering sequences like this, where Carlos is mutilated with razor blades and the team has to sink all their funds into the doctor's bill to help him.

Probably the low/high point of the film's "message" portion is when the team seems to be falling apart, and Bingo has to put Rainbow on a bus home himself -- even temporarily adopting the harsh language and demeanor of their old slave master Potter.

Mabel King plays Bertha Dewitt, the aforementioned female owner and sexual powerhouse. She's an interesting character -- a mountain of a woman who's just as greedy and conniving as her fellows, but at least has sense enough to suggest enlisting Bingo Long's All-Stars to play their own teams, filling the stands rather than trying to destroy them. She acts as Potter's main adversary, continually trading insults about how fat and unattractive the other one is.

The actors employ a great deal of authentic vernacular in the movie, and I wonder how much of it is in the book/script and how much the cast themselves contributed. Even Leon, who's clearly presented as the cagiest and most learned of the All-Stars, says things like "I loves you and I's proud o' you." Jones and the other actors never try to play down to their characters, simply reflecting how black people spoke in the 1930s.

Even if, like me, you're not a baseball fan, there's a whole lot of the flavor of the game to be savored in "Bingo Long." Though the actors don't necessarily pass themselves off as accomplished pitchers or hitters, they're convincing enough for the close-ups. I love the scenes of the stands filled with black folks, stamping their feet, chattering and laying bets on each at-bat.

Bingo has a tradition before each home game of throwing to the first hitter without his team taking the field -- daring them to put wood to ball with no one there to field it. He makes a real show of it, doing a call-and-answer with the crowd: "Who... gonna hit... my... invite pitch?!?"

I'm truly glad I got to see "The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars & Motor Kings." It may not be the best film ever made, but it's one of those movies that enlightens while it entertains. Go catch it yourself.

Reeling Backward: "Brian's Song" (1971)

We're going back to television! In writing last week's column on "Too Young a Hero," I was looking over the filmography of director Buzz Kulik and saw that among his credits is one of the most iconic television movies ever, "Brian's Song," which also gets mentioned as among the best sports flicks, too. It's universally regarded as the one movie that can get grown men to weeping.

The TV drama was so successful, in fact, that according to its Wikipedia page it actually enjoyed a theatrical run after its broadcast -- a feat I've never heard of another show replicating.

"Brian's Song" had become one of those objects that I knew more through its pop culture reputation than any first-hand experience with it. So I decided to extend my foray into TV movies for one more week.

I was mildly disappointed in "Brian's Song." Its production values and dialogue, while certainly good by the standards of 1971 television, have not held up well with the years. Seen in modern lights, the movie has an undeniable hammy tinge. And at 74 minutes minus commercials, the story of the friendship between two professional football players feels short-shrifted and hurried.

The teleplay by William Blinn is much overpraised, in my humble opinion, despite its Emmy and Peabody award wins. It follows a pretty standard and predictable three-act format: the meeting and initial rivalry between Chicago Bears running backs Gale Sayers and Brian Piccolo; their deepening friendship as emnity gives way to comradely affection; and Piccolo's diagnosis and death from a rare form of cancer.

I'd use the term "television movie-of-the-week" as a put-down to describe the material, except that's exactly what "Brian's Song" is.

What saves the movie is the tremendous acting, with all due credit to Kulik's direction. It helped that the three main roles were all helmed by big-screen veterans: James Caan as Piccolo, Billy Dee Williams as Sayers and Jack Warden as crusty coach George Halas. Even the supporting parts, including the men's wives and fellow players, feel solidly rooted and authentic.

Caan had a corner on insouciant charm, and milks it for everything it's worth with his twinkly smile and easygoing grace. Williams has the harder role as the more internal Sayers, a man who had to be coaxed into uttering more than a few words in a row, and uses his facial expression and mannerisms to convey his character's almost timid reserve.

I feel compelled to point out that Caan and Williams were in their early- and mid-30s, respectively, when the movie was made, playing men who age from 22 to 26 -- the latter being when Piccolo tragically passed away.

What's notable is that Kulik and Blinn don't go for big, maudlin sentimental moments. The relationship between Sayers and Piccolo is kept distinctly masculine -- lots of teasing and joshing, but with a deep undercurrent of respect and ardor.

"I love Brian Piccolo, and I'd like all of you to love him to," Sayers says in the movie's most oft-quoted line, apparently a direct quote from a speech he gave.

The filmmakers play up the racial aspect of a black man and a white man bonding in 1965, and one memorable scene has Piccolo trying to motivate Sayers' rehabilitation from a dreadful knee injury by calling him the n-word, which is so ham-fisted and ridiculous that it only provokes peals of laughter.

In the talent department, Piccolo perennially plays second fiddle to the highly-regarded Sayers, who ended up having a terrific though injury-shortened career, becoming the youngest person ever inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame. Something the movie doesn't show is that Piccolo actually didn't even make the Bears team the first year both men joined the Bears, being relegated to the modern equivalent of the practice team.

I confess that I did not tear up while watching "Brian's Song," or even come close to doing so. It's a well-done TV  movie, with splendid acting you don't normally see in that medium. But I found its reputation overinflated.

2.5 stars out of four