Movie Review:
Ray
PG-13 / 2 hrs., 32 min. / 2004
I know precious little about Ray Charles. I am not a fan of his music, and I have only caught glimpses of his performance mannerisms in Pepsi Cola commercials. Now that I have seen Ray, I realize just how far-reaching his musical influence is. Call me naive, but I did not know he was the figure behind “Georgia On My Mind” and “Hit the Road, Jack,” and half a dozen other songs I’ve hummed in my lifetime.
Taylor Hackford’s Ray begins chronicling the life of Ray Charles as he leaves his native Florida in his early 20's and heads to Seattle for his first legitimate employment. Surrounded by sleazebags and conniving managers, Ray starts learning to stand up for himself and make his own way in the music world. His loss of sight only increases his other senses, enabling Ray to know when his employer is skimping on his cut of the pay, or when nightclub owners are attempting to rip him off. He uses his wits and brainpower instead of muscle to fight off the crooked bosses and studio honchos who try to steer him according to their plans. And he gains so much leverage in his quest that he can even demand an unprecedented clause in his contract: Personal ownership of his master recordings. Let it be said that my knowledge of the legendary figure has been enlightened.
And I have also been depressed and disturbed. Ray Charles apparently led a life of extensive drug use, marital infidelity, and the usual fame-induced attitude problems. Although the DVD case describes the film as “Ray’s inspirational journey; a tale of hope [and] redemption,” there is not a great deal of inspirational material in the film. The part about hope and redemption doesn’t even rear its head until the end credits are ready to roll. In the end, I think I would have preferred not knowing everything I now know about Ray. (And for those who would prefer not knowing any more about the film before seeing it, be aware that from here on out there may be some mild “spoiler” material.)
The problem with the movie’s entertainment value is in its choice of focus. The film spans a fair amount of time, but it is precisely that time in Ray’s life when things go from dark to darker. His drug addiction and his womanizing that nearly shatter his family tend to dominate the storytelling. (I can’t help thinking that his wife should have seen it coming, since she was sleeping with him before they were married, a ready indicator that he was not bringing a lot of high moral scruples into the union.) When the film does focus on Ray’s musical career, we are subjected to his increasingly egocentric behavior.
It doesn’t help that the flashbacks, designed to give us insight into why Ray is so driven, reveal a tragic and depressing childhood. Certainly this history to his personality is necessary, but combined with the weight of Ray’s present-day problems, we are really burdened down and pressed hard to squeeze some positive enjoyment out of the whole experience.
When I leave a theater, I generally like to feel better than when I went in. Ray fails here, as the entire film is 150 minutes of Ray’s long slow downfall into a pit of despair. Certainly there are the musical successes and the amazing celebrity status that this little boy from the South achieves, but these are not so much bright spots in the film as they are opportunities for Ray to sink even lower.
The film ends as Ray checks into a rehab clinic. A confrontation with his wife has enabled him to see what the drugs and the fame have done to him, and so he goes in for treatment. In other words, the film ends just when the advertised hope and redemption are finally entering Ray’s life; and all of his shining future is relegated to three or four screen captions just before the end credits, leaving us no chance to rebound with him and cheer him on. How much more rewarding to have taken the content of this film and assigned it to the first two-thirds of a movie that spends the last third rejoicing in Ray’s comeback.
Two things keep this film from becoming one of the most dreary sob stories ever made: Jamie Foxx’s performance, and the regular inclusion of Ray Charles’ upbeat musical numbers.
Jamie Foxx (Collateral) is outstanding as Ray. He has the manic sways and swings of the performer, the broad smile, and the speech patterns down so well, I did not recognize him as Foxx until a scene in which he takes off his glasses to “look” at his mother. I cannot compare him with the other four performances he was up against at his respective Academy Awards, but his victory as Best Leading Male was certainly reasonable at the very least. Quite a surprise from a man who started on In Living Color and appeared in such forgettable trash as Booty Call and Breakin’ All the Rules.
Foxx is backed up by a wonderful set of supporting performers, including Kerry Washington (Against the Ropes), Clifton Powell (Rush Hour), Harry Lennix (Get on the Bus), and Regina King (Jerry Maguire), among many others – and just when I think I’ve seen the last of Warwick Davis (Willow), he pops up again; this time he’s the announcer at Ray’s first Seattle gig.
The music of Ray Charles is peppered throughout the movie, as we would expect it to be, and fans will no doubt find themselves humming along. He apparently had quite the musical range and energy, and his fan base swelled so immensely that there’s a good chance “Elvis Lives” will soon be replaced by something else entirely. (That’s just a guess; I’m not an Elvis fan either.)
Taylor Hackford (Dolores Claiborne) has a sense of direction that is as energetic as Charles’ music. He keeps things moving right along. Sometimes too fast, even. The opening half hour of the film seems too eager to skip to “the good parts,” and feels choppy in its rush to get there. This is a minor complaint compared to the wonderful job Hackford does overall. We are convincingly and expertly swept into Ray’s world – but unlike Ray, we get to see it in all its sequined and neon glory.
I was not around during the times covered in the film, but everything feels right. From the hot, sweaty plantation in Florida to the grimy nightclub in Seattle and all across the country, the people look real, their costumes are right, the sets feel authentic. It is actually harder to work Production Design on a film that takes place just a generation ago than it is to redesign long-extinct civilizations – Stephen Altman and all the artists under him have done a wonderful job re-creating the American 1940's through 1960's.
It is entirely appropriate that since Ray Charles was a recording artist, it is his actual recordings that dominate the soundtrack. The only drawback is that Jamie Foxx’s speaking voice and Ray Charles’ singing voice are just dissimilar enough that the first time we hear one of Ray’s songs dubbed over Foxx lip-synching, it is a distracting change. Charles’ voice was slightly deeper and mellower than Foxx’s, judging from the recordings used, so the change in timbre from Foxx to Charles provides a slight jolt. A few of the songs do appear to be coming from Foxx’s vocal tone, and the end credits indicate that he did contribute singing talent to the soundtrack. Perhaps he should have contributed more, I don’t know.
Well, ultimately, I want to enjoy this film more than I actually did. The music is enjoyable. Foxx is wonderful. There is a zest in the storytelling. But I cannot shake the depressing tone of the film. Where most movies would consider Charles’ experiences in rehab to be the low point from which to spring into the third act, Hackford and writer James L. White let the curtain fall when the chips are down. And I am left with no desire to pick the chips up.
My Score: 7
