Ray
(2004)
Dir. By Taylor Hackford
Maybe I'm just a sucker for the ‘tormented life of an artist’ narrative, but holy shit I fell for this one and it tore me up in the process. Of course, my initial judgment may have been clouded; pre-screening I attended a rigorous session of acupuncture. My official diagnosis was that my chi was “fighting with itself.” Like I needed a chick in a lab coat to tell me that I have internal conflict. Anyway, apparently some energy needed to be released, which may have resulted in my being “overly emotional for a few days.” Call me a skeptic, but I certainly thought it would take more than an ancient Chinese secret to fuck with my hard edge…. Right. I sobbed through the movie, on the drive home, and the next day curled up on my boyfriends futon. The whole time watching and re-watching in my head the struggles of little Ray’s tormented soul.
I mean, when I think Ray Charles I picture him and Stevie Wonder thrashing around in the front row of the “We Are The World" video, obscuring the view to the celebrities we really want to see—like Hall and Oats. But I stand corrected. The man was nothing short of a fucking musical badass and a totally likable guy despite some pretty serious faults.
But here’s the thing, as remarkable as this mans story is, the flick itself is totally mediocre. The only thing that separates this from a poorly produced VH1 movie of the week? Two words: Jamie Foxx. Who, by the way, has disturbed me with his creepy mustache, super shiny unnaturally straight hairline and failed attempts at comedy since the days of In Living Color. Apparently, all he had to do to win my heart was trade the pocket pussy stache for a hype soul patch and morph into the role of Ray. What a brilliant performance from the man who signed on to do Booty Call. I mean, who knew?
Inspired, I’m sure, by Foxx’s no holds barred performance, the rest of the cast rose to the occasion, sans one. My burning question: why the hell did Hackford decide to, ever so unexpectedly, drag Warwick Davis out of my nightmares and once again on to the silver screen? Now was that necessary, really? And don’t get me wrong in my terror, it’s not an anti little people thing, it’s an anti Leprechaun thing. I mean maybe I’m missing some sort of a historical reference, but in my world that freaky little demonic goblin has no place in a flick with “The Genius.”
In fear that my complete lack of journalistic integrity might have been compromised by China, I attended a subsequent viewing of the film. It held up. I cried less, but Willow’s gyrating freaked me out even more the second time around. That aside, with a past as marred by personal tragedy as Ray Charles’, one can only speculate on the state of his chi. Which might help justify his dependency on needles and the resulting flailing ticks. As for Stevie Wonder, I just don’t think there’s really any sort of an excuse for him.
