“The High Note” falls short of potential
Like a potted fern held aloft by a forest of well-positioned stakes, Dakota Johnson claims the center of “The High Note” on the strength and general excellence of the actors around her. Every one of them is a blessing, even those (condolences, Ice Cube) enduring trite roles and formulaic setups in a movie that can’t decide if it’s a musical reworking of “The Devil Wears Prada,” an underdog romantic comedy or a feminist arrow to the heart of the entertainment industry.
Not that it matters in a script (by Flora Greeson, a former music-industry assistant) that sometimes requires not just the suspension of disbelief but its assassination. It’s something of a miracle, then, that this hokey tale of an aspiring young record producer and a prematurely written-off diva unfurls almost as smoothly as the vintage soul and R&B that greases the soundtrack: Clearly, director Nisha Ganatra knows that no one can resist a dash of Donny Hathaway.
Certainly not Maggie (Johnson), a harried personal assistant to an imperious superstar named Grace Davis (a magnificently intimidating Tracee Ellis
Ross, working a cackling laugh and a killer wardrobe). Fearful of becoming irrelevant, Grace is unsure of her next move: Her longtime manager (Ice Cube) would like her to slide gracefully into a lucrative residency at Caesar’s Palace, while
Maggie is tentatively urging her to release an album of new material. Weary of giving her boss enemas and cleaning out her closets, Maggie has her own ambitions.
Enter David (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), a velvetvoiced singer-songwriter and all-around sweetie who, wouldn’t you know it, needs only a talented producer to kick his career into orbit. With neither referral nor resume, Maggie persuades him to hire her, magically conjuring a fully equipped recording studio and session musicians, then even agreeing to sing backup — a move that astonishingly fails to derail their romantic attraction.
Pulsing with beats by the likes of Sam Cooke and Corinne Bailey Rae, “The High Note” is pleasant enough but disappointingly timid and thoroughly implausible. As wary of taking chances as its three lead characters, the film relies on corny contrivances, music-industry clichés — here we go again with the multicity tour montage — and a soapy plot reveal that would mortify daytime television.
Counteracting Johnson’s regrettable blandness, a clutch of agile actors in minor roles inject color and life into otherwise small moments. June Diane Raphael is an airheaded delight as Grace’s acquisitive hired companion, and Bill Pullman is cozily credible as Maggie’s music-obsessed father. But it’s Eddie Izzard, as a jaded musical legend, who adds a welcome shot of acid:
His perfectly delivered monologue feels imported from a harsher, braver movie.
Such a film could have sharpened its claws on any one of the music-industry prejudices that this one pretends to care about, especially those faced by female recording artists. Instead, we get flyby comments about age and race and fame that don’t stick in any meaningful way, as well as an ongoing impression of talented women having their voices suppressed. But if all you do is whisper, you can hardly complain about not being heard.