The release of Cadillac
Records (and
the existence of the still-unreleased Who Do You Love) underscores the oversight
that's kept filmmakers away from Chicago's Chess Records for so long. Home to
artists like Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, Bo Diddley, Sonny Boy Williamson,
Little Walter, Chuck Berry, and Willie Dixon in their mid-century prime, the
Chess roster teems with characters whose lives could provide the fodder for
many remarkable movies. Or they could be carelessly piled into one movie that
leaves no life-of-the-artist cliché untouched, like Cadillac Records does.
Adopting the
once-over-the-most-famous-moments-lightly approach favored by the sort of
movies and retrospectives that VH1 Classic airs on a loop, Cadillac Records plays more like a collection
of costumed episodes than a cohesive film. Adrien Brody plays Leonard Chess
who, with his brother Phil (barely a character here), uses an eye for talent to
expand a nightclub business into a successful studio. Jeffrey Wright co-stars
as Muddy Waters, a singer-guitarist whose talent and charisma make him a giant
among the bluesmen who migrated north to create the new electric sounds of the
post-war era. As the two build the label, new artists pass through Chess'
doors, including self-destructive hitmaker Etta James (played by Beyoncé
Knowles, who also executive-produced the film).
A lot gets lost as
writer-director Darnell Martin rushes to tell the whole Chess story from
beginning to end, and though she reveals a keen eye in a few scenes and
develops an overarching theme by repeatedly returning to Chess'
not-always-selfless paternalism, she lets the plot drift and allows her cast to
deliver whatever performances they like, regardless of whether they belong in
the same movie. Some deserve movies of their own (Wright and Mos Def as Chuck
Berry). Some try too hard (Knowles, an unconvincingly fatsuit-clad Eamonn
Walker as Howlin' Wolf). And the half-awake Brody doesn't try hard enough.
Almost unavoidably, the film includes a lot of fine music. But as with most
music biopics, it's never clear where it comes from, or how there's time to
make it between the boozing and the bedding. And the print-the-legend approach
to the facts, plus the need to squeeze conflict and drama into almost every
scene, just make things worse. Martin attempts to present the whole oversized
Chess story, but instead winds up reducing the lives and art that give it
shape.