Through the mess that is Cadillac Records, one can still discern that there is a great story to be told. Without the presence and talents of Muddy Waters (Jeffrey Wright, Quantum of Solace), Chuck Berry (Mos Def, Be Kind Rewind) and Etta James (Beyoncé Knowles, Dreamgirls), it is difficult to imagine America, let alone American popular music.
It is the telling, however, of this quintessential American musical odyssey that Records frequently botches, as Darnell Martin’s inept direction and writing reduce larger-than-life legends to shallow, incomplete caricatures.
Still, much of Records’ first act – like the musicians themselves – brims with promise.
The story of Waters is especially effective, as Wright delivers a portrayal of the great blues man whose seething resentment from his days as a sharecropper led him to become the “baddest man alive.”
If there is one shortcoming to Wright’s performance, it is that he embodies the older, wearier Waters far better than the young one. Though Wright musters up sinister smirks and speaks in appropriately grave tones as he beds throngs of adoring women, he simply lacks an edge. One does not feel the danger and energy that should come from Waters’s presence.
Initially, Adrien Brody (The Darjeeling Limited) is remarkably charming and earnest as Chess Records mogul Leonard Chess, a man who is riddled with much of the same insecurity that plagues Waters. Chess’s feelings of inadequacy are derived from being a skinny Polish Jew who loses girls because he does not have enough money to drive a Cadillac.
Brody effectively conveys that Chess is a man of equal parts ambition and sweetness. He magnanimously takes care of his performers, such as Waters and Little Walter (Columbus Short, Quarantine), to the point of being called “white Daddy.” But Chess still expects much in return, as the film later reveals.
The show-stealer, however, is Mos Def as Chuck Berry. By now accustomed to owning every film he appears in, Mos Def embodies Berry with both a wit and humanity that scenery-chewing Short could learn from.
Clearly, the foundation for the characters is strong. Yet their development still goes astray, partly due to the film’s multiple conflicting story lines and subplots. Records simply lacks a driving narrative force.
The relationship between Chess and Waters is relegated to the back burner in favor of Chess’ flirtations with James. This romance would work much better in the larger context of the film if Knowles and Brody were given less clunky, halting dialogue and were not rushed through their interactions. The actors’ attempt at sexual tension and electrifying chemistry just fizzles and dies after Brody looks into Knowles’s tearful eyes for the umpteenth time and promises he will not hurt her.
Simply put, Knowles’s mercurial and occasionally revelatory portrait of James is undermined every time she has to open her mouth and force out clichés.
Although meant to be an important character, Little Walter simply shows up every few scenes, gets himself in trouble and starts crying.
Similarly, Berry is banished in the third act, never to be seen again.
All of these developments are meant to tie in to larger themes of race – specifically the plantation owner-sharecropper dynamic at play – as a white Jew makes millions off the work of black musicians. But the topic of race is merely glanced at from a distance, losing importance to the personal conflicts of the characters.
Due to these problems, Records does not flow from scene to scene, but lurches. Its pacing is forced and artificial. One can almost imagine Martin hastily aborting each scene to squeeze the story into a commercially viable 109-minute running time.
Apart from narrative issues, Records struggles mightily with tone. While its humor works well, the switch to drama is made far from seamlessly.
For example, a tearful confrontation between Waters’ swife, Geneva (Gabrielle Union, Meet Dave), and Little Walter swings awkwardly between a heartfelt soliloquy explaining how Geneva’s devotion to Waters keeps her faithful and a farcical gag in which Walter’s looks of dismay at the prospect of not getting any are played for laughs.
In addition, it is a cruel irony that a film about some of the best music of the 20th century has serious score issues. To signal every emotional scene, the same rueful piano loop is played in the background, to an appreciable groan from the audience. One expects better from Spike Lee collaborator Terence Blanchard.
Records would work much better if it decided what story it wanted to tell, and told it effectively. Ensemble pieces test the story-telling skills of a director more than anything else. It’s apparent Darnell is no Robert Altman, or even Paul Thomas Anderson.
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RATING: 3 out of 5 stars
