The Idle Maker
Whenever it's on the verge of grand scale entertainment, Taylor Hackford's ambitious Ray cuts from the most compelling moments in the life of recording artist Ray Charles. It is a hard life, and there is no denying that, in his portrayal of the late Mr. Charles, actor Jamie Foxx has come a long way since Booty Call. His performance as the blind country, jazz and gospel singer is concentrated and it is good. But Foxx, through no fault of his own, does not carry the movie.
We see Charles, as Ray Charles Robinson, a poor Negro child (heartbreaking C.J. Sanders), with his mother (stern Sharon Warren), struggling to make ends meet. We witness him, watching in shock while his younger brother drowns. We observe him going blind, refusing to depend on others and becoming self-reliant. When Charles charms a church lady (Kerry Washington) into marriage, we can discern that his motive power for success is fueled by the triumph over adversity, yet much of the evidence is missing.
From his breakout tune, "I Got a Woman," to the wild-eyed "What'd I Say," the music in Ray Charles, as presented here, randomly springs to life. Sure, he works hard, so hard that he turns to heroin and sex with backup singers (and Aunjanue Ellis' smile could melt an iceberg). His music, which put joy in gospel, is jubilant. That makes it hard to figure why Hackford, who co-wrote Ray with James L. White, declines to show any songs from start to finish. Important events—discovering a spouse's child out of wedlock, a girlfriend's death, the decision to quit shooting up—happen offscreen.
Ray also eliminates the last 40 years of his life—the unaddicted years—though millions know Ray Charles chiefly as that blind, black and born-again Christian singer who showed up at the Republican National Convention every four years to sing "America the Beautiful." Because it does not dramatize his life in essential terms, often replacing heroism with heroin, Ray suggests that the artist—any artist—is the product of his environment. To create, Ray implies, one must be deeply wounded.
Titles announcing newspaper headlines, dates and locations scroll, roll, appear in spurts and distort one's sense of time: only a few years have passed by in what seems like 30 minutes. Grainy exterior shots contrast with clear exterior shots for no apparent reason.
Though the music stops too soon, it makes one want to do the "Messaround," as one of Ray's early songs urges. Highlights include "Hit the Road, Jack," a climactic moment, and the improvisational "What'd I Say," which is depicted as coinciding with his worst drug addiction, born—like many great works of art—of a suddenly imposed deadline.
Like Hackford's White Nights, Ray contains moments approaching greatness. Hackford is exact in staging music—remember Baryshnikov's scene on stage at the Kirov Ballet Theater with Helen Mirren, or the electrifying scenes in The Idolmaker—and Ray delivers some lively, powerful performances. Ray Charles' career mirrors an important era in America's history, from the early 20th century through the mid-1960s, and Ray often unfolds like an illuminating docudrama with top production values.
Leaving one informed and, occasionally, moved, Ray is too focused on the artist's flaws as the source of his art—without establishing a clear connection. As with Hackford's excessive The Devil's Advocate, the result is an epic, which is also extremely exhausting.
We see Charles, as Ray Charles Robinson, a poor Negro child (heartbreaking C.J. Sanders), with his mother (stern Sharon Warren), struggling to make ends meet. We witness him, watching in shock while his younger brother drowns. We observe him going blind, refusing to depend on others and becoming self-reliant. When Charles charms a church lady (Kerry Washington) into marriage, we can discern that his motive power for success is fueled by the triumph over adversity, yet much of the evidence is missing.
From his breakout tune, "I Got a Woman," to the wild-eyed "What'd I Say," the music in Ray Charles, as presented here, randomly springs to life. Sure, he works hard, so hard that he turns to heroin and sex with backup singers (and Aunjanue Ellis' smile could melt an iceberg). His music, which put joy in gospel, is jubilant. That makes it hard to figure why Hackford, who co-wrote Ray with James L. White, declines to show any songs from start to finish. Important events—discovering a spouse's child out of wedlock, a girlfriend's death, the decision to quit shooting up—happen offscreen.
Ray also eliminates the last 40 years of his life—the unaddicted years—though millions know Ray Charles chiefly as that blind, black and born-again Christian singer who showed up at the Republican National Convention every four years to sing "America the Beautiful." Because it does not dramatize his life in essential terms, often replacing heroism with heroin, Ray suggests that the artist—any artist—is the product of his environment. To create, Ray implies, one must be deeply wounded.
Titles announcing newspaper headlines, dates and locations scroll, roll, appear in spurts and distort one's sense of time: only a few years have passed by in what seems like 30 minutes. Grainy exterior shots contrast with clear exterior shots for no apparent reason.
Though the music stops too soon, it makes one want to do the "Messaround," as one of Ray's early songs urges. Highlights include "Hit the Road, Jack," a climactic moment, and the improvisational "What'd I Say," which is depicted as coinciding with his worst drug addiction, born—like many great works of art—of a suddenly imposed deadline.
Like Hackford's White Nights, Ray contains moments approaching greatness. Hackford is exact in staging music—remember Baryshnikov's scene on stage at the Kirov Ballet Theater with Helen Mirren, or the electrifying scenes in The Idolmaker—and Ray delivers some lively, powerful performances. Ray Charles' career mirrors an important era in America's history, from the early 20th century through the mid-1960s, and Ray often unfolds like an illuminating docudrama with top production values.
Leaving one informed and, occasionally, moved, Ray is too focused on the artist's flaws as the source of his art—without establishing a clear connection. As with Hackford's excessive The Devil's Advocate, the result is an epic, which is also extremely exhausting.
