Knight at the Movies ARCHIVES
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An ambitious attempt to merge music present and past promises much and delivers little
I had large hopes for Idlewild, the hotly touted big screen debut of current musical superstars André “Andre 3000” Benjamin and
Antwan “Big Boi” Patton. Not because I am a fan of hip-hop or rap or of Outkast but because I love musicals and eagerly screen
anything that even remotely fits the genre. But Idlewild (the name is derived from a vacation resort popular with blacks back in the
1930s – though it was in Michigan, not the Georgia location of the movie) is a tease that never delivers. It’s long on atmosphere,
period detail and ripe with talented supporting players. Where it falls down is in the leads themselves. Benjamin and Boi might be
stars in their particular orbit but their rather thin gifts don’t translate to the musical idiom. These two have personality to spare and
both have acting talent. But the music, the main focus of the film is another story. This meeting of hip hop and southern blues and
jazz, which the film wants to combine, is nothing more than oil and water and each time that boom boom bass begins the picture
cancels itself out.
And any movie musical that casts Patti LaBelle as a legendary singer and then consigns her to one scene and one in which SHE DOES
NOT SING gets what it deserves. Sidelining such an enormous musical talent (and not to let Ben Vereen dance) is the equivalent of
the Bulls benching Michael Jordan at the height of his basketball career. The picture, already on thin ice at that point for me, never
recovered.
But before this ill-conceived moment, there was plenty of plot, cribbed from various other movies (Some Like It Hot for one) to
contend with. It’s the story of two friends, the well behaved Percival (Benjamin), a talented pianist and songwriter who will grow up
doing the bidding of both his wild best friend, Rooster (Boi) and his stentorian, mortician father (Vereen). These two unlikely friends
are first shown as impish children and there is a Puckish energy to the young Rooster (Bobb’e J. Thompson), so full of guile that he
dances with delight with each new con. But young Rooster grows up to be Big Rooster and the role is taken over by Boi who never
matches the intensity that kid has in his two scenes.
We are told that Rooster is the star of the local juke joint, a speakeasy packed to the gills each night with a naughty Josephine
Baker like chorus line and that Macy Gray as the drunken Taffy is merely the warm up act. Taffy gets the movie’s first song and it is
here that the promise of the merging of today’s “sound” and the music of the era of Idlewild is at its height. Clutching a whiskey
bottle, she slurs around the stage and sings a song that artfully blends the two eras (it's the only song in the movie that even
makes the attempt). Then Rooster the star arrives after a clamoring crowd has practically torn down the place and here the crowd
goes wild. Big Boi struts through the chorus girls in a pimp’s fur coat and goes into a patented rap that is totally out of context and
the movie goes down the toilet.
“He’s not singing,” I thought to myself with horror, “He’s not going to sing. It’s a musical, how can he not sing?” Yet the crowd
reacts as if they’d seen the Second Coming – just like the paid extras convulsed with laughter when Sally Field did her “knock ‘em
dead” stand-up routine in Punchline. Except she was dreadfully unfunny and Big Boi is just, well, a man in a 1930s costume…talking
to music.
This is probably a good time to mention that people who talk to music are not my thing. I do not get it. The popularity of rap and
hip-hop has always puzzled me – why do people love it so? The clever lyrics are to be admired, yes (look no further than Porter and
Sondheim for proof of geniuses of the form) but what is there to admire in the speaking of the clever verbiage in double time
without a hint of vocal ability? What could possibly trump the talent of a performer who can master the cleverness of lyrics married
to unforgettable melody and sing it with emotions so immediate that one aches or rejoices (depending on the song)? I would take
ONE Louis Armstrong song over the ENTIRE rap/hip hop output. ONE Billie Holiday number. ONE Bessie Smith or Fats Waller tune.
This is what ran through my head each time Boi or one of his compatriots started speaking over the thump thump thump thump. My
kingdom for a singer.
And then…someone does sing. This is Angel, or the pretend Angel (Paula Patton), the breathtakingly beautiful singer who arrives at
the club (having stolen Patti LaBelle’s costumes and name) and finally gets her chance after rehearsing (and romancing) on the side
with Percival. We have seen the sheet music on Percival’s songs literally dancing with delight (a great idea but wasted) and heard
snatches of the rehearsal. As Angel stepped to the mic I again expected that Garland/Streisand A Star is Born moment. I knew the
song couldn’t be as good as “The Man That Got Away” but surely it would be better than “A Woman in the Moon” but again, neither
was the case. Patton sings a perfectly satisfactory offbeat jazz tune that has no chorus, no form and not one semblance of one of
those Star Search/American Idol/Showtime at the Apollo songs. But again, the paid extras go ape shit over Angel’s teeny tiny little
whiny voice (and much of the movie audience, too) and she’s suddenly hot stuff.
Much happens after this as the movie extends and extends as each plot device is resolved. It fizzes in fits and starts but never
catches fire and when we glimpse Benjamin at the conclusion, dapper in a 30s Fred Astaire tux and tails, surrounded by lavish
glamazons, we hope, “Here at last we’re going to get the real thing musically” but when Benjamin opens his mouth to sing and a
little mouse comes out, I again expected the audience to laugh out loud. Instead, they were cheering.
Walking out after the screening I heard a lot of audience members comparing Idlewild to Chicago. Were they listening? Did they
hear Queen Latifah bring the house down? Did they realize that that was Catherine Zeta Jones beltin’ it out? That the cast of
Chicago could actually sing AND dance? I feel like the persnickety show tune queen character played by Nathan Lane in Love! Valour!
Compassion! raining on everyone's parade but when it comes to musicals – and that includes the movie variety – I want the whole
meal AND the dessert. Or nothing at all.
And Idlewild barely serves up crumbs.
*Idlewild screened after my WCT deadline but in time for me to include it here. My print column focused on recent Gay TV on DVD
releases and single edition discs of the early Barbra Streisand TV specials.
Antwan “Big Boi” Patton. Not because I am a fan of hip-hop or rap or of Outkast but because I love musicals and eagerly screen
anything that even remotely fits the genre. But Idlewild (the name is derived from a vacation resort popular with blacks back in the
1930s – though it was in Michigan, not the Georgia location of the movie) is a tease that never delivers. It’s long on atmosphere,
period detail and ripe with talented supporting players. Where it falls down is in the leads themselves. Benjamin and Boi might be
stars in their particular orbit but their rather thin gifts don’t translate to the musical idiom. These two have personality to spare and
both have acting talent. But the music, the main focus of the film is another story. This meeting of hip hop and southern blues and
jazz, which the film wants to combine, is nothing more than oil and water and each time that boom boom bass begins the picture
cancels itself out.
And any movie musical that casts Patti LaBelle as a legendary singer and then consigns her to one scene and one in which SHE DOES
NOT SING gets what it deserves. Sidelining such an enormous musical talent (and not to let Ben Vereen dance) is the equivalent of
the Bulls benching Michael Jordan at the height of his basketball career. The picture, already on thin ice at that point for me, never
recovered.
But before this ill-conceived moment, there was plenty of plot, cribbed from various other movies (Some Like It Hot for one) to
contend with. It’s the story of two friends, the well behaved Percival (Benjamin), a talented pianist and songwriter who will grow up
doing the bidding of both his wild best friend, Rooster (Boi) and his stentorian, mortician father (Vereen). These two unlikely friends
are first shown as impish children and there is a Puckish energy to the young Rooster (Bobb’e J. Thompson), so full of guile that he
dances with delight with each new con. But young Rooster grows up to be Big Rooster and the role is taken over by Boi who never
matches the intensity that kid has in his two scenes.
We are told that Rooster is the star of the local juke joint, a speakeasy packed to the gills each night with a naughty Josephine
Baker like chorus line and that Macy Gray as the drunken Taffy is merely the warm up act. Taffy gets the movie’s first song and it is
here that the promise of the merging of today’s “sound” and the music of the era of Idlewild is at its height. Clutching a whiskey
bottle, she slurs around the stage and sings a song that artfully blends the two eras (it's the only song in the movie that even
makes the attempt). Then Rooster the star arrives after a clamoring crowd has practically torn down the place and here the crowd
goes wild. Big Boi struts through the chorus girls in a pimp’s fur coat and goes into a patented rap that is totally out of context and
the movie goes down the toilet.
“He’s not singing,” I thought to myself with horror, “He’s not going to sing. It’s a musical, how can he not sing?” Yet the crowd
reacts as if they’d seen the Second Coming – just like the paid extras convulsed with laughter when Sally Field did her “knock ‘em
dead” stand-up routine in Punchline. Except she was dreadfully unfunny and Big Boi is just, well, a man in a 1930s costume…talking
to music.
This is probably a good time to mention that people who talk to music are not my thing. I do not get it. The popularity of rap and
hip-hop has always puzzled me – why do people love it so? The clever lyrics are to be admired, yes (look no further than Porter and
Sondheim for proof of geniuses of the form) but what is there to admire in the speaking of the clever verbiage in double time
without a hint of vocal ability? What could possibly trump the talent of a performer who can master the cleverness of lyrics married
to unforgettable melody and sing it with emotions so immediate that one aches or rejoices (depending on the song)? I would take
ONE Louis Armstrong song over the ENTIRE rap/hip hop output. ONE Billie Holiday number. ONE Bessie Smith or Fats Waller tune.
This is what ran through my head each time Boi or one of his compatriots started speaking over the thump thump thump thump. My
kingdom for a singer.
And then…someone does sing. This is Angel, or the pretend Angel (Paula Patton), the breathtakingly beautiful singer who arrives at
the club (having stolen Patti LaBelle’s costumes and name) and finally gets her chance after rehearsing (and romancing) on the side
with Percival. We have seen the sheet music on Percival’s songs literally dancing with delight (a great idea but wasted) and heard
snatches of the rehearsal. As Angel stepped to the mic I again expected that Garland/Streisand A Star is Born moment. I knew the
song couldn’t be as good as “The Man That Got Away” but surely it would be better than “A Woman in the Moon” but again, neither
was the case. Patton sings a perfectly satisfactory offbeat jazz tune that has no chorus, no form and not one semblance of one of
those Star Search/American Idol/Showtime at the Apollo songs. But again, the paid extras go ape shit over Angel’s teeny tiny little
whiny voice (and much of the movie audience, too) and she’s suddenly hot stuff.
Much happens after this as the movie extends and extends as each plot device is resolved. It fizzes in fits and starts but never
catches fire and when we glimpse Benjamin at the conclusion, dapper in a 30s Fred Astaire tux and tails, surrounded by lavish
glamazons, we hope, “Here at last we’re going to get the real thing musically” but when Benjamin opens his mouth to sing and a
little mouse comes out, I again expected the audience to laugh out loud. Instead, they were cheering.
Walking out after the screening I heard a lot of audience members comparing Idlewild to Chicago. Were they listening? Did they
hear Queen Latifah bring the house down? Did they realize that that was Catherine Zeta Jones beltin’ it out? That the cast of
Chicago could actually sing AND dance? I feel like the persnickety show tune queen character played by Nathan Lane in Love! Valour!
Compassion! raining on everyone's parade but when it comes to musicals – and that includes the movie variety – I want the whole
meal AND the dessert. Or nothing at all.
And Idlewild barely serves up crumbs.
*Idlewild screened after my WCT deadline but in time for me to include it here. My print column focused on recent Gay TV on DVD
releases and single edition discs of the early Barbra Streisand TV specials.
A Non-Musical Musical:
Idlewild
8-25-06 Knight at the Movies Column*
By Richard Knight, Jr.
Idlewild
8-25-06 Knight at the Movies Column*
By Richard Knight, Jr.
