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Cadillac RecordsThose who don't 'get' the blues usually have the same old gripes; that unlike, say, classical or even pop, the music, its rhythm (da-dum, da-dumm) and its lyrics (variations on "my (wo)man left me...") rarely change. You hear similar criticisms of biopic movies, especially those about musicians, which hope to distract viewers from a familiar rise-and-fall trajectory by barreling through their greatest hits. As with both tried and tested templates, what ultimately matters is who the artist is, and how they imprint their own passion, spirit and personality onto their respective format. And that's where Cadillac Records, though steering a familiar route, frankly cruises past most of its competition.
Writer-director Darnell Martin's take on Chicago's Chess Records and its hugely influential roster of talent - from old-fashioned blues titans Muddy Waters (Jeffrey Wright) and Howlin' Wolf (Eamonn Walker), through to Chuck Berry duck-walking the path to rock 'n' roll - is highly selective. Aficionados might want to summon Robert Johnson's devil when they discover that Chess founders, Polish-Jewish ?©migr?© brothers Leonard and Phil Chess are here just ol' Len (Adrien Brody), alone in selling his product from the back of the eponymous motor car, before quickly becoming successful (and shady) enough to pay some of his artists in said automobiles rather than dollars.
In fact brother Phil is absent because Martin is aiming for something more than a Chess retrospective. She's using the record label as a barometer of America's racial awakening, testing out the, er, Waters long before Motown and Stax (not to mention British acolytes like The Rolling Stones) smoothly flowed black music into the mainstream. The focus here is the relationship between Leonard and Muddy, himself an illiterate, just a cough and spit away from slavery. The defiant, often cannily confrontational attitude of Waters, Howlin' Wolf and the volatile Little Walter (Columbus Short) helped set civil rights on its way. Their electrifying music simply knew no boundaries of gender, class or race.
So a casual disregard for facts and some dramatic short cuts (ho-hum narration from Cedric The Entertainer's Willie Dixon) are the sacrifices for an ambitious, impressionistic glimpse at this tipping point, and the trade-off is more than fair. The music itself is, granted, unimpeachable. But Martin - heavily trumpeted as the first African-American female feature director for her 1994 debut I Like It Like That - goes for a loose, all-embracing staging that allows it full range, pointedly emphasizing the impact on listeners, particularly those hearing this R'n'B - and later rock 'n' roll - for the first time. She's also brave enough to put a huge amount of trust in her knockout cast, many of whom perform their own singing. They don't let her down.
Wright confirms, yet again, he's one of the great modern character actors: compare his languid Muddy to his clenched Colin Powell in W. if you want versatility; the hugely underrated Walker is frankly terrifying as the volcanic Wolf - his and Muddy's macho, unspoken duel when Wolf assaults his signature tune 'Smokestack Lightnin'' is a highlight; and Knowles is a revelation as the tragic, smack-addicted Etta James, hitting dramatic depths she's never been asked to attain before (and yes, that certainly includes Dreamgirls). And, boy, can she carry a tune - her version of 'At Last' even giving James a run for her money.
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