‘A hyperactive sensory overload’
If you’re looking for a sensitive and thoughtful biopic of Elvis Presley, you came to the wrong place. If you’re looking for a hyperactive sensory overload, then you came to the right one, because Elvis is directed and co-written by Baz Luhrmann, and you can tell within seconds that the maker of Strictly Ballroom, Romeo + Juliet, and Moulin Rouge! is taking care of business.
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And I do mean “within seconds”. Even the Warner Bros logo is bejewelled and gilded, and the opening scenes that follow are a riot of captions and split screens, soundtracked not just by rock’n’roll but classical pomp and deafening hip-hop. What’s even loopier is that the film is narrated by Presley’s conniving manager, Andreas Cornelis van Kuijk, a Dutch carnival impresario straight out of Nightmare Alley who awarded himself the name and rank of Colonel Tom Parker when he sneaked into the US. Parker is played by Tom Hanks with a fat suit, a long false nose, rubbery prosthetic jowls, and a high, squawking, vaguely European voice. Imagine a fairy-tale goblin played by Mike Myers, or a version of the Penguin that Tim Burton deemed too far over the top for Batman Returns.
In a device that echoes both Citizen Kane and A Christmas Carol, the decrepit Parker reminisces about Presley’s career, and insists that he shouldn’t be branded the villain of the piece. (Spoiler alert: yes, he should.) First he hears Presley’s debut single, That’s All Right, and is shocked to learn that the singer is white. Then he tracks the callow Presley (Austin Butler) to a country and western show, and sees him transforming magically from shy crooner to pink-suited sex god. There are glimpses of Presley’s hard-scrabble childhood in Mississippi and Tennessee, when his father Vernon (Richard Roxburgh) was jailed for forging a cheque. And then it’s time for Parker to sweet-talk the ambitious youth into a partnership, and for the hit records and movie roles to come flooding in.
Elvis
Directed by: Baz Luhrmann
Starring: Austin Butler, Tom Hanks, Olivia DeJonge
Length: 2 hours 39 minutes
All of this is conveyed in unbridled Luhrmannish fashion; that is, the action flashes back and forward through time so fast that you’ll get whiplash, the camera whirls all over the place, and there are sudden switches to black-and-white and to animated comic strips. This glitzy exuberance will infuriate anyone who is not a fan of the director’s manic style, but, let’s face it, these sequences are a terrifically fun and invigorating way to get reams of information across, and only a genius could have put them together. This is what Luhrmann’s film is going to be like, it seems, so you might as well strap in and enjoy the rollercoaster ride.
Bit by bit, though, he calms down. Parker’s wheedling voice-over continues, but the stylistic pyrotechnics fade until Elvis becomes a straightforward biopic. This will be a blessed relief to some viewers, but it soon becomes clear that once Luhrmann has discarded his trademark music-video flourishes, there isn’t much left. Elvis is revealed as an old-fashioned, daytime-TV life story, the kind that ticks off its subject’s career landmarks as if it is scrolling through Wikipedia, and rejects intelligent dialogue in favour of clunky explanations along the lines of: “Sun Records? That’s Sam Phillips’ label, the one that puts out records of black music.”
The theme that runs through the film is the push and pull between Presley’s natural rebelliousness and Parker’s obsession with controlling and exploiting him. This is fair enough, as narrative threads go. But Luhrmann is so focused on Parker’s whiny and obnoxious self-justifications that no one else gets a look-in. Little Richard and BB King have insulting blink-and-you’ll-miss-them cameos, just to acknowledge Presley’s debt to black musicians. Presley’s backing band consists of ciphers. The hangers-on known as the Memphis Mafia all get their names on the screen, but none of them does or says anything. Even Elvis’s wife Priscilla (Olivia DeJonge) is reduced to sitting around, looking either adoring or sad, so if there was anything to distinguish her from all the young women who screamed at him, we’re none the wiser.
Worse still, Presley himself has so little depth that the film should probably be called “Tom” instead. Butler does an impressive job, especially during the ferocious concert scenes. His feverish hip-shaking and shadow-boxing are of Olympic standard, and when he flashes a smile at the audience, to let them know he is in on the joke, you can see why they adored him. But when Presley is off stage, Butler is stranded in an underwritten role, as if he is a guest star in someone else’s biopic. What did Presley think about music or life or his family and friends? What were his political convictions? Who was the man beneath the quiff? It’s possible that Luhrmann didn’t want to upset the singer’s estate, which authorised the film, because he seems to be careful of taking any stand that might be controversial. Instead, he spends close to three hours telling us that Presley did whatever Parker wanted, but only because that was what he wanted, too. He was addicted to drugs, but only because a doctor insisted he take them. The press mocked him for being bloated and fat, but he (or rather Butler) remained as slim and fresh-faced as ever. He led a tragic, empty life according to one closing scene, but a happy, fulfilled life according to another.
Elvis isn’t bad, but this is a film about one of the 20th Century’s most electrifying and controversial performers, and it’s made by one of cinema’s most irrepressible stylists. It really shouldn’t be as staid and cautious as this.
★★★☆☆
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