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MOVIES based on the lives of popular musicians constitute a
durable genre in Hollywood, and also a fairly safe one. While not many of
them rise to the level of greatness - "Coal Miner's Daughter," Michael
Apted's life of Loretta Lynn, comes closer than most - there are very few
that manage to be completely unwatchable, though "De-Lovely" certainly
tried.
"Walk the Line," James Mangold's movie about Johnny Cash, settles down in
the fat middle of the bell curve, providing, if nothing else, an excuse to
go out and buy some CD's. Well cast, competently written (by Mr. Mangold
and Gill Dennis) and carefully costumed, it adheres to a familiar "Behind
the Music" formula, following its subject through childhood trauma,
marriage and divorce, alternating off-stage melodrama with recreated
performances that remind us why we should care about this guy in the first
place.
Comparisons with Taylor Hackford's "Ray," which opened around this time
last year, are inevitable. Both pictures place on the shoulders of their
relatively young stars - Jamie Foxx and, in this case, Joaquin Phoenix -
the burden of impersonating characters whose real voices, faces and
mannerisms could hardly be better known. (For good measure, "Walk the
Line" also gives us brief glimpses of actors playing Elvis Presley, Roy
Orbison, Waylon Jennings and Jerry Lee Lewis.)
There are, moreover, some striking biographical similarities between
Johnny Cash and Ray Charles, both of whom worked with the filmmakers
telling their stories, though neither lived to see the final product. Like
"Ray," "Walk the Line" tells the tale of a poor Southerner, born in the
early years of the Great Depression, whose childhood was marked by the
death of a beloved brother. Between the humble beginnings and the eventual
immortality come events that seem almost interchangeable, more like stock
situations than lived experiences. Vintage tour buses rumble down
nighttime back roads. Drug habits are acquired - heroin for Charles,
prescription pills for Cash - leading to trouble with the law and painful
scenes of withdrawal. The houses and the record labels get bigger (Charles
moved from Atlantic to ABC, Cash from Sun to Columbia), the groupies come
and go, and the long-suffering wives and girlfriends occasionally burst
into angry tears.
The crucial difference, and the main reason that "Walk the Line" proves to
be the lesser film, lies in the way the movies deal with the music that
is, after all, their reason for existing. Mr. Hackford structured his film
around Ray Charles's creative life, inviting us to understand how he fused
various elements of the American musical vernacular into a new and
distinctive sound. While Johnny Cash achieved something comparable, Mr.
Mangold's film offers more tribute than insight. As he leaves home for the
Air Force, Johnny's mother (Shelby Lynne) presses her book of hymns into
his hands, and before long we see him, while stationed in Germany, working
on what will become "Folsom Prison Blues." (Later, June Carter makes notes
for "Ring of Fire," though in the film's chronology she appears to be
doing so several years after the song was first recorded.)
When Cash and his combo audition at Sun Records, Sam Phillips (Dallas
Roberts) stops them in the middle of a pallid gospel tune and harangues
Cash about the importance of honest, raw emotion, advice that elicits
"Folsom Prison Blues" and a recording contract. The most popular version
of this story is a lot punchier than what is on screen. "Go home and sin,"
Phillips is supposed to have said, "and then come back with a song I can
sell."
A great many songs and recordings followed, of course, of a richness and
variety that very few American artists have equaled. Cash's bottomless
voice and the steady, churning rhythms stayed constant, but the sheer
range of material is staggering: murder ballads, love songs, novelty
numbers, pop covers, gospel standards, all sung with mean wit and
heartbreaking sincerity.
There is no way a feature-length movie could do justice to such bounty,
and "Walk the Line" settles for the minimum. The religious conviction and
social conscience that informed some of Cash's most enduring songs are all
but erased, as the picture dwells mainly on the most accessible, least
provocative aspects of his musical legacy - the early, rockabilly-tinged
Sun sides, the early-60's hits and, of course, the duets with June Carter,
played by Reese Witherspoon.
Cash and Carter's long infatuation, tumultuous partnership and eventual
marriage provide the film with an emotional core. Johnny's first wife,
Vivian (Ginnifer Goodwin), aspires above all to middle-class normalcy and
material comfort, and while the filmmakers try to show her some sympathy,
she doesn't stand much of a chance next to June. Ms. Witherspoon's lively,
smart performance suggests a mixture of warmth and brisk professionalism,
qualities the actress and the singer clearly share. But most of June's own
drama - the collapse of her two marriages before she finally said yes to
Johnny, the pressures of growing up in a show-business family - takes
place off screen, which makes the character feel a bit incomplete.
Then again, so does Johnny himself, in spite of Mr. Phoenix's sweating,
quivery intensity. The premise of his performance seems to be that Cash, a
shy, diffident, almost inarticulate fellow in daily life, found his rage,
humor and charisma onstage, and Mr. Phoenix does a good job of conveying
this transformation. Even though his singing voice doesn't match the
original - how could it? - he is most convincing in concert, when his
shoulders tighten and he cocks his head to one side. Otherwise, he seems
stuck in the kind of off-the-rack psychological straitjacket in which
Hollywood likes to confine troubled geniuses.
Johnny's father, Ray (Robert Patrick), is cold and critical, compounding
the feelings of guilt and inadequacy that arose from the death of Johnny's
older brother, Jack (Lucas Till), in a sawmill accident. But as is often
true in narratives like this, the childhood hardships and psychological
scars explain both too much and too little. Emoting plus music does not
add up to art, and Mr. Phoenix's Johnny Cash, after more than two hours,
remains stranded in the no man's land between cliché and enigma.
The decision to make new versions of Cash's songs rather than have the
actors lip-sync over existing recordings (as Mr. Foxx did in "Ray") was a
risky one. The results are respectable, if rarely transporting. There are
only two moments likely to raise goose bumps: Ms. Witherspoon singing the
Carter Family staple "Wildwood Flower," accompanying herself on autoharp,
and Mr. Phoenix lurching into an out-of-control rendition of "I Got
Stripes" that ends in drug-fueled collapse. Otherwise, you have to wait
until the final credits to be reminded of what Johnny Cash and June Carter
really sounded like. Their disembodied voices carry more presence, more
humor and hurt, than anything in the movie itself, which honors them
without quite capturing who they were.
"Walk the Line" is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). It has hints
of extramarital sex, some prescription drug abuse and a few four-letter
words.
Walk the Line
Opens today nationwide.
Directed by James Mangold; written by Mr. Mangold and Gill Dennis;
director of photography, Phedon Papamichael; edited by Michael McCusker;
production designer, David J. Bomba; produced by Cathy Konrad and James
Keach; released by Fox 2000 Pictures. Running time: 138 minutes.
WITH: Joaquin Phoenix (Johnny Cash), Reese Witherspoon (June Carter),
Ginnifer Goodwin (Vivian Loberto), Robert Patrick (Ray Cash), Dallas
Roberts (Sam Phillips), Dan John Miller (Luther Perkins), Larry Bagby
(Marshall Grant), Shelby Lynne (Carrie Cash), Tyler Hilton (Elvis
Presley), Waylon Malloy Payne (Jerry Lee Lewis), Shooter Jennings (Waylon
Jennings), Johnathan Rice (Roy Orbison) and Lucas Till (Jack Cash).
Correction: Nov. 23, 2005, Wednesday:
A listing of credits in Weekend on Friday with a film review of "Walk the
Line," about Johnny Cash, misspelled the surname of his first wife. She
was Vivian Liberto, not Loberto. |
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