Elvis Presley - The King, a film
From impossibly beautiful man to one impossibly bloated, the story of Elvis Presley is an allegory about the cultural history of America from the 1950s to today. “The King” has all the subtlety of car crash. It poses questions, it offers answers. Some are not pretty. It puts a serious hurt on the notion that if you work hard you can achieve what you want….aka The American Dream.
It’s poignant. It’s revelatory. It’s complicated. It digs into the taproot of the divide in America: race. At times, I squirmed in my seat as the dots were connected between race, music, commerce, and the myths and platitudes we tell ourselves to this day.
Twenty minutes into the film, I realize this is a documentary whose ambition is to connect the zeitgeist between the 1950s and America of 2017, forty years after Elvis dies at 42 of a heart attack caused by abuse of painkillers. This is no gauzy portrait encased in amber. As one reviewer comments, “We go from Graceland to Trumpland.”
How did Elvis happen? How did he become The King? Whose King? Why did we love him? Who were his people? What made him tick? How did he become packaged and merchandised to within an inch of his life? Why did he never take the reins and become himself? Did he ever comprehend his power and the possibility of using it for social or racial betterment? Was he simply the most successful cultural appropriator in history? (David Simon’s comment about that is probably as close as you can get to an answer).
Somewhere under the popular image was a country boy whose ambition, noted in archival footage, was to sing the music he loved. It all started in 1954 while 19 year-old Elvis was trying to make an impression on Sam Phillips at Sun Records in Memphis.
After he sang some unimpressive country-ish popular songs, the demo tapes stop rolling. Elvis loosens up, probably to decompress, and begins singing with the unbuckled energy and style of the blues, gospel, and rhythm ‘n blues he’d been listening to on black music stations and in his neighborhood churches since he was a kid.
With irrepressible abandon, he begins to sing his version of Willa Mae "Big Mama" Thornton’s “You Ain’t Nothing But A Hound Dog, ” a white boy covering a decidedly black influenced song with all the unbound juice it called for. Of note, "hound dog" was common black slang for a cheap gigolo, not the dog I imagined when I heard the song.
Philips runs in from his office and tells Elvis to keep singing. He had finally found what he’d been looking for. A white kid whose sound could bring the music of black America to a wider audience. The legend was born.
The film’s brilliant conceit is Elvis’s 1963 Rolls Royce. Director and co-writer Eugene Jerecki gathers a collection of big-name celebrities, including Chuck D, Emmylou Harris, Alec Baldwin, Ethan Hawke, Van Jones, James Carville, Mike Myers to sit in that car and paint a multi-dimensional, occasionally contrarian portrait of The King, much like the country he ruled (and that ruled him).
Jerecki tricks out that dream car with state-of-the-art audio and video equipment and takes it on a road trip from Memphis to New York to Las Vegas and down the rural lanes of Tupelo, Mississippi. The real time segments shot in the Rolls Royce are quilted with archived black and white and color footage that contrasts reality with myth. That car is a rolling sound stage. It feels like part of the cast. Its occasional breakdowns during the filming may be the exotic car’s commentary on its owner’s life.
Rapper Chuck D and Van Jones speak the truths about race and culture that I reckon were true. They sting. The most jarring observations about America are made by a truck driver and several residents of Tupelo, Mississippi, the King’s sleepy hometown.
One minute, people like me who grew up when Elvis turned the country upside down, relive the liberating youthful moments he changed our worlds. The next moment, in news clips of the time, I felt uncomfortable to confront an America that, like Camelot, was never what I believed it was.
A giant qualifier: That “we” is a huge chunk of white men and women of a certain age. The larger lens includes comments from today’s black community and a younger generation that never saw the arc of popular American music change with the comet named Elvis. The conversation about cultural appropriation?
David Simon says it best.
“The entire American experience is cultural appropriation.”
Consider that In 1952, Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, two twenty-something rhythm 'n blues loving songwriters from Jewish families, wrote the song “Hound Dog” specifically for Thornton. “It took them 15 minutes to write the song,” said Gil Anthony. Of note: “Hound dog” was common black slang for a cheap gigolo, not the literal hound dog I thought about when I heard the song.
The film is brutally honest and complex. Director Jarecki shines light on history found not in books but in newspaper accounts around the country. Black and white photos of lynched black men hanging from a tree with a bunch of white people standing around are bone chilling. This is one of the most disturbing and provocative films you will ever see, a deep dive into American culture.
The 120-minute film’s clips weave his early career, first recordings 1953-1956, his commercial breakout 1956 – 1958, his mother’s death and military service 1958-1960, film career 1960-1967, his comeback to the stage 1968-1973 with archival footage and hit you upside-the-head contemporary comments by those passengers rolling along in that Rolls Royce.
“There are three kings, BB King, Elvis, and Martin Luther King, Jr.,” says one commentator connecting the dots as we see vintage footage of the Lorraine Hotel in Memphis and hear the voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. delivering the “I’ve Been To The Mountaintop” speech in April 1968.
Jarecki exposes the self-promoting role Colonel Parker took in commanding Elvis’s career choices before Presley’s ignominious self-destruction in Las Vegas. Elvis was the unscrupulous Parker’s piggy bank. Parker set Elvis up in Las Vegas, willfully ignored his descent into a sad parody of himself as he became a blubbering mess with pain killers coursing through his veins. Elvis doesn’t get off the hook, choosing the most lucrative next step for his career, no matter what the cost to his soul or his art.
How is Jarecki going to end this, I wonder as the film hits 115 minutes. The footage of Elvis five minutes before the film ends will keep you transfixed in your seat long after the credits roll. Jarecki lets you draw your own conclusions.
In panoramic detail, director Eugene Jarecki takes us on a road trip showing us how we got here. The biggest question - where do we go from here?
Documentary filmmakers want to make you think.
My takeaway? Who are our idols? Who are our role models? Beyond wishful thinking and envy, do they change the way we live or behave or are they an anesthetic that numbs us to the rocky social conditions in which we live?
We are so out of touch with our authentic history. “The King” is shock therapy that makes us look beyond our next order on Amazon and the next bizarre story about a government in dysfunction. After you see this film, make a vow to snap out of living in a world of tweets and do one small thing every day to make America a better place.
Elvis Presley (January 8, 1935 – August 16, 1977)
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-front-row/the-king-reviewed-a-documentary-about-elvis-that-wants-to-be-a-documentary-about-america
found after I wrote this
J.M.W. Turner Sunset
Gobsmacked...once I saw the first incandescent cosmic explosion, I drove westward through streets to get a better view, leaning outside the car window to photo and once in a while shooting right through the windshield. Reminded me of walking through a gallery of J.M.W.Turner's paintings that fiercely capture the evocative power of his palette to envision apocalyptic moments in history...a condemnation of the slave trade, a ghastly vision of slavers hurling slaves overboard with a typhoon bearing down on it, and the burning of the House of Commons October 16, 1834.
He must have held these moments in his imagination and kept on adding layers of pigment after the events occurred.
I let Nature do the heavy lifting. I found roads that offered better views, eyes on the glorious colors changing like a kaleidoscope by the minute from 7:58 PM till 8:19 PM and it was over. A cosmic palette a la J.M.W.Turner.
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Photos by Paul A. Tamburello, Jr
July 17, 2022 in Commentaries | Permalink | Comments (0)