James Brown was all about the groove, but the film of his life never finds its own.
What is "Get On Up" trying to be? A Southern memory play, full of melancholy ghosts? A hip, break-the-fourth-wall piece of irony, with Brown talking to us, directly? A straightforward bio with music?
Yes, and yes and yes.
And no.
The picture has Brown's incredible songs, and several good performances (several more, in fact, than "Jersey Boys," a film about a very different kind of music, but with a similar fondness for now-listen-up addresses to the camera).
And no.
The picture has Brown's incredible songs, and several good performances (several more, in fact, than "Jersey Boys," a film about a very different kind of music, but with a similar fondness for now-listen-up addresses to the camera).
But "Get On Up" never finds its rhythm.
Blame most of that on director Tate Taylor, as most will (like the recent Jackie Robinson bio, this was another Spike Lee passion project Lee never managed to get made).
Taylor got the gig based on the success of "The Help," a hit which qualified him in the eyes of producers Brian Grazer and Mick Jagger (and simultaneously disqualified him in the eyes of many Brown fans). What could a white man know about this story?
Well, quite a bit perhaps. Certainly Taylor, who was born in Mississippi, knows shotgun shacks and jukejoints and fish fries. He also seem to have empathy for strong, flawed women and an unabashed love of greasy R&B, soul, gospel and funk.
But he doesn't seem to care much about how that music is actually created, and he doesn't seem very interested in race. And to put music and race aside, and then try to tell the story of James Brown, is to climb into the ring with both hands tied behind your back.
At least he has Chadwick Boseman in his corner. Boseman seemed poised to be a breakout star with "42," the recent Jackie Robinson film; if there's any justice, this film will close the deal.
True, Boseman doesn't actually sing Brown's hits; (the Godfather of Soul might rise from the grave if anyone tried). But he's got the rubber-legged moves down, and the odd stiff way Brown had of holding his head and hands late in life. And the rusty rasp of that voice is letter-perfect.
So, too, is the attitude — that all-consuming hunger for respect, that ever-present need for control, from a man who had seen precious little of either growing up poor and alone in the Jim Crow South.
