Elvis was complicated; so is new biopic
Director takes an unorthodox approach to Presley's story
My first and strongest memory of Elvis Presley is of his death. He was only 42 but he already seemed, in 1977, to belong to a much older world. In the 45 years since, his celebrity has become almost entirely necrological. Graceland is a pilgrimage spot and a mausoleum.
Baz Luhrmann's “Elvis” — a biopic in the sense that “Heartbreak Hotel” is a Yelp review — works mightily to dispel this funerary gloom. Luhrmann, whose relationship to the past has always been irreverent and antinostalgic, wants to shock Elvis back to life, to imagine who he was in his own time and what he might mean in ours.
The soundtrack shakes up the expected playlist with jolts of hip-hop (extended into a suite over the final credits), slivers of techno and slatherings of synthetic film-score schmaltz. (The composer and executive music producer is Elliott Wheeler.) The sonic message — and the film's strongest argument for its subject's relevance — is that Presley's blend of blues, gospel, pop and country continues to mutate and pollinate in the musical present. There's still a whole lot of shaking going on.
As a movie, though, “Elvis” lurches and wobbles, caught in a trap only partly of its own devising. Its rendering of a quintessentially American tale of race, sex, religion and money teeters between glib revisionism and zombie mythology, unsure if it wants to be a lavish pop fable or a tragic melodrama.
The ghoulish, garish production design, by Catherine Martin (Luhrmann's wife and longtime creative partner) and Karen Murphy, is full of carnival sleaze and Vegas vulgarity. All that satin and rhinestone, filtered through Mandy Walker's pulpy, red-dominated cinematography, conjures an atmosphere of lurid, frenzied eroticism. You might
mistake this for a vampire movie.
It wouldn't entirely be a mistake. The central plot casts Elvis (Austin Butler) as the victim of a powerful and devious bloodsucking fiend. That would be Col. Tom Parker, who supplies voice-over narration and is played by Tom Hanks with a mountain of prosthetic goo, a bizarre accent and a yes-it's-really-me twinkle in his eyes. Parker was Presley's manager for most of
his career, and Hanks portrays him as part small-time grifter, part full-blown Mephistopheles.
“I didn't kill Elvis,” Parker says, though the movie implies otherwise. “I made Elvis.” In the Colonel's mind, they were “the showman and the snowman,” equal partners in a supremely lucrative long con.
Luhrmann's last feature was an exuberant, candycolored — and, I thought, generally underrated —
adaptation of “The Great Gatsby,” and the Colonel is in some ways a Gatsbyesque character. He's a selfinvented man, an arriviste on the American scene, a “mister nobody from nowhere” trading in the unstable currencies of wishing and seeming. He isn't a colonel (Elvis likes to call him “admiral”) and his real name isn't Tom Parker. The mystery of his origins is invoked to sinister effect but not fully resolved. If we
paid too much attention to him, he might take over the movie, something that almost happens anyway.
Luhrmann seems more interested in the huckster than in the artist. As a Presley biography, “Elvis” is not especially illuminating. The basic stuff is all there, as it would be on Wikipedia. Elvis is haunted by the death of his twin brother, Jesse, and devoted to his mother, Gladys (Helen Thomson). Relations with his father, Vernon (Richard Roxburgh), are more complicated. The boy grows up poor in Tupelo, Mississippi, and Memphis, Tennessee, finds his way into the Sun Records recording studio at the age of 19, and proceeds to set the world on fire. Then there's the Army, marriage to Priscilla (Olivia DeJonge), Hollywood, a comeback broadcast in 1968, a long residency in Las Vegas, divorce from Priscilla and the sad, bloated spectacle of his last years.
Butler is fine in the few moments of offstage drama that the script allows, but most of the emotional action is telegraphed in Luhrmann's usual emphatic, breathless style. The actor seems most fully Elvis — as Elvis, the film suggests, was most truly himself — in front of an audience. Those hips don't lie, and Butler captures the smoldering physicality of Elvis the performer, as well as the playfulness and vulnerability that drove the crowds wild. The voice can't be imitated, and the movie wisely doesn't try, remixing actual Elvis recordings rather than trying to replicate them.
The sexual anarchy and gender nonconformity of early rock 'n' roll is very much in Luhrmann's aesthetic wheelhouse. Its racial complications less so. “Elvis” puts its hero in the presence of Black musicians including Sister Rosetta Tharpe (Yola), Big Mama Thornton (Shonka Dukureh) and B.B. King (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), who offers career advice. An early montage — repeated so often that it becomes a motif — finds the boy Elvis (Chaydon Jay) simultaneously peeking into a juke joint where Arthur Crudup (Gary Clark Jr.) plays “That's All Right Mama” and catching the spirit at a tent revival.
Who was he? The movie doesn't provide much of an answer. But younger viewers, whose firsthand experience of the King is even thinner than mine, might come away from “Elvis” with at least an inkling of why they should care. In the end, this isn't a biopic or a horror movie or a cautionary parable: It's a musical, and the music is great. Remixed, yes, and full of sounds that purists might find anachronistic. But there was never anything pure about Elvis Presley, except maybe his voice, and hearing it in all its aching, swaggering glory, you understand how it set off an earthquake.