Rise and tragic fall of jazz trumpeter
Kasper Collin’s “I Called Him Morgan” has all the elements of great tragedy: a young charismatic artist throws away a successful career in a downward spiral of substance abuse, is rehabilitated by a caring woman — an angel, really — and just as his career is in full re ascendance, his life is cut short by the very person who saved him.
That is the story of jazz trumpeter Lee Morgan, and Collin’s documentary, opening Friday, April 28, at the Roxie Theater, not only reminds us of the great talent of a largely forgotten artist, but also draws a complex, compelling portrait of Helen Morgan (not to be confused with the famous singer/actress), the savior, wife and, ultimately, killer of Lee.
Additionally, Collin, with the help of archival footage and photographs and the cinematography of Bradford Young (“Selma,” “Arrival”), gives us a unique and invigorating portrait of the New York jazz scene, circa 1956-72.
Lee Morgan, born in Philadelphia, had a real gift. He performed with John Coltrane and Art Blakey as a teenager before forging his own New York City-based solo career — “The Sidewinder” became that rare jazz standard that crossed over onto Billboard’s pop charts. Even non-jazz aficionados knew Morgan through his television appearances, such as on “The Steve Allen Show.”
Morgan, though, developed a nasty heroin habit, and his life and career nosedived. By the time he met Helen, who was 14 years his senior, he was nearly homeless.
Of the many fellow musicians, relatives and friends Collin tracks down, all agree that Helen saved Lee’s life. But the master stroke of “I Called Him Morgan” is that Collin structures the film around not the witnesses, but two audio recording interviews of Helen Morgan; one from the early 1970s, shortly before she killed Lee, the other just before her death in 1996 in her native North Carolina, where she retreated after her release from prison.
There is apparently no film or video of Helen. We see still photos, but we don’t see her move as we do Lee and the witnesses. So her voice acts as a sort of ethereal narrator, almost
a ghost, struggling to make sense of her act, struggling to find a sense of moral redemption.
Ultimately, Collin’s film is one of forgiveness. That’s not the usual way great tragedies end.
G. Allen Johnson is a San Francisco Chronicle staff writer. Email: ajohnson@sfchronicle. com Twitter: @BRfilmsAllen