ONE FILM, TWO TAKES: CAN’T STOP, WON’T STOP
The documentary exposes the complicated genius behind the successful chaos
‘I’ve had comedies, I’ve had horror stories, I’ve had suspense thrillers, action movies, gangster films. And ... I’m still in this movie.” — Diddy Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop is a celebration of one of hip-hop’s most valuable labels, Bad Boy Records. It revolves around Sean John Combs, alias Puff Daddy, Puffy, Diddy and (Brother) Love, the larger-than-life producer and chief executive who oversaw the imprint through its glorious highs in the early 1990s, as well as the tumultuous lows, beginning with the death of the Notorious B.I.G in ’97, followed by a series of fallouts with artists who became disillusioned with the label.
Puffy has always excelled at groundbreaking stuff, and this film is no different. The premise is simple, at least on paper — the whole Bad Boy roster and affiliated talent performing on one stage.
It’s fascinating to hear about Puff’s rise — the events promoter who has been everything from a delivery boy to a drug dealer and became responsible for the success of artists such as Jodeci, B.I.G and Mary J Blige.
The film begins with an interview in
March 1997, around the time Puffy’s friend and business partner B.I.G was killed. “Is your public image a true reflection of who you are?” asks the interviewer. “I see the media portray me like I’m a gangsta, or at times I’m a cold individual, or I’m just a shrewd businessman,” he replied. According to him, he’s a regular dude with aboveaverage aspirations to become the greatest record executive there ever was.
While the film offers no groundbreaking revelations — the late Black Rob’s case, in which Puffy is implicated, and his rumoured involvement in the death of Biggie Smalls are never discussed — it does give us many memorable bops which defined one of the most important eras in black American music and culture.
The heartfelt moments are what thread the film together. The ghost of Notorious B.I.G, the shattered dreams of artists, the ghastly bones of 1990s beefs, of bad business decisions of unpaid royalties — they’re all there.
The focus shifts to affiliated Bad Boy artists towards the middle of the film. We see a stillfresh pastor Ma$e; we witness the still-present wounds caused by B.I.G’S death, like when Lil’ Kim initially refuses to make peace with Faith Evans; and we hear how, despite being coaxed, Craig Mack refuses to be a part of the show due to his religious convictions.
The film made me realise just how much Bad Boy Records contributed to the black urban American experience. Scenes showing everyone from Busta Rhymes and Jay-z to Usher drive this home. What was once a dream has turned into a monumental reality as Puffy perches permanently on the throne of not only hip-hop, but musical, greats. — Tseliso Monaheng
Jantelagen is the Scandinavian belief one should not talk about one’s success. This philosophy informs the reticence of the Scandinavian super-producers who shaped popular music from ABBA to Katy Perry. Now that it is 2022, the popular music is hip-hop, which has no pretensions to jantelagen but thrives on the kind of self-aggrandisement embodied by Sean Combs.
Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop: A Bad Boy Story is a documentary about the professional life of Puff Daddy, the record mogul who could not stop making hits in the 1990s with his stable of artists who blurred the distinction between hip-hop and R&B. Total,
Lil’ Kim, Mary J. Blige, 112, Ma$e and Faith Evans reunite to celebrate two decades of
Bad Boy Records at Brooklyn’s Barclays Centre in 2016.
First-time director Daniel Kaufman hangs the plot on the hook of the climactic performance. Everything until then is build-up, interspersed with archival footage of Diddy’s grind to $740-million. Contemporaries such as Jay-z and Nas weigh in with insights.
Answers remain a mystery in this feature as it elides the scandals that have followed Puff, such as the acrimonious departure of The LOX and the 2001 club shooting that resulted in a prison sentence for Shyne. The long-standing beef between Faith and Kim is touched on but not to the satisfaction of an audience who wants to know its genesis.
Vague allusions substitute for substantive dialogue not only when Combs holds peace talks with Kim but also when he lambasts his Bad Boy “family” when the rehearsals displease him. When he sees an unsatisfactory lighting rig, he explodes, “I don’t want the Chrysler that looks like the Phantom. I want the Phantom,” he says, leaving the crew to decipher his words. In band rehearsals he first instructs the instrumentalists not to sound like the studio record, then to do so because, when following his commands, they “sound like a wedding band”.
Such are the power plays we have to swallow as we sympathise with the lackeys who cannot clap back.
Choreographer-cum-general manager Laurieann Gibson does her best to remain onside by justifying Puff’s tirades as expressions of his complicated genius. Gibson is the only person thanked by name when the credits roll after a successful show.
But that is the stuff we have come to expect of post-reality TV documenting: rampant egotism, impossible deadlines and tearful apologies. The drama is supplemented at a technical level by quick-cut pacing, flashbacks to vintage footage and input from dozens of talking heads. Add a countdown to a make-or-break live performance and you have an event of pure salesmanship marked by high production values.