Elvis is like a sneeze into a bullhorn: incoherent at volcanic decibels. saffronmaeve reviews the Baz Luhrmann musical biopic:
—the rhinestoned belt buckle of musical biopics—is like a sneeze into a bullhorn: Incoherent at volcanic decibels. Luhrmann’s sprawling, confused epic spans the entirety of Elvis Presley’s professional career, from his Sun Records days to his controversial leg shaking, Vegas residency and Paramount Pictures deal. True to life, Elvis does not pilot the narrative.
All of Luhrmann’s maximalist flavors are on display: Breakneck editing, splashy scenery, crotch shots, selective overacting . The film’s first hour echoes Luhrmann’smost patently, splicing songs by Doja Cat and Denzel Curry into its conservative setting and throwing editing etiquette to the wind. It’s a film so enamored by the idea of Elvis, unencumbered by the thornier specifics of his life which might burst its central bubble of leather suits, red bulbs and honky-tonk goodwill.
The trailer was right on the money about Hanks, however, whose performance skates far past bizarre or camp and into truly abject territory. In what was presumably an effort to ridicule Parker, Hanks and Luhrmann cheapen the circumstances, making Parker’s manipulation appear clownish rather than deliberate.
One of the first things you might consider when sketching out Elvis’ life for the screen is how to assess his more contentious qualities: His appropriation of Black artists, pursuit of teenage girls, bitter temper and destructive addictions. At one point, Elvis tearfully watches the news after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., which he proclaims has ev-uh-ry-thang to do with him. Another scene sees B.B. King gently remind Elvis of his whiteness.
Luhrmann’s Elvis fits squarely alongside his raft of pasteurized leading men: The Romeos, Christians and Gatsbys whose flawed, pathetic sensibilities are spackled over with pity and pomp. Luhrmann and co-writers Craig Pierce, Jeremy Doner and Sam Bromell rinse their screenplay of any introspection, favoring lush sentimentality. Such is the overarching issue with biopics today: They’re incurious, ever-churning flattery machines.
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