How "Elvis" Personifies the King

Elvis Presley did not have a good year last year. According to Forbes, which tallys the earnings of the deceased, he earned a meager $30 million in 2021, which is more than Arnold Palmer but less than Bing Crosby and Dr. Seuss. Elvis may nonetheless rest easy. Austin Butler's starring part in the most recent Baz Luhrmann film, "Elvis," might result in a significant increase in his pay this year. There is nothing here for Presleyologists to learn, and purists will discover plenty material against which to rage. Less-informed viewers, though, may be captivated by Luhrmann's vivid presentation of the story. This is not a film for sceptical minds.

Any lover of musical biopics will recognize the structure: a hop, skip, and leap from one highlight to the next. Obviously, there are lows among the highs. In the case of Elvis, this means we encounter him in his youth, as portrayed by Chaydon Jay, whose remarkable intensity of gaze distinguishes the young man. Elvis as a truck driver, with his guitar slung over his shoulder like a gun; the cyclonic sight of Elvis onstage, lovely in pink and whipping an audience into a Dionysian froth; Elvis on the Steve Allen show, in white tie and tails, singing "Hound Dog" to a despondent dog; Elvis fleeing to Memphis's Beale Street to socialize with B. B. King (Kelvin Harrison, Jr.) and Little Richard (Alton Mason); Elvis Presley in Army uniform, appearing incredibly dapper and wooing the daughter of a captain, Priscilla (Olivia DeJonge); Elvis lamenting the deaths of Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy; Elvis lounging inside a vowel on the Hollywood sign, and being told that his career is "in the toilet"; Elvis performing in residence at the International Hotel, in Las Vegas, flush with renewed success; and Elvis sitting sadly in a limousine, next to a private jet, and telling Priscilla, "I will be forty soon, 'Cilla. Forty." Has the notion of becoming older never occurred to him before? Two years later, he has passed away, but the film spares us the unpleasant details of his passing.

Colonel Tom Parker guides us through this peculiar narrative, where even the most intimate moments seem like public property. He was not a proper colonel, Parker, or Tom, as has been established for some time. He was a Dutchman, Andreas Cornelis van Kuijk, who traveled to the United States and constructed a new persona for himself with the ease of someone erecting a circus tent. Many would claim that he was also Elvis's terminator. If not otherwise committed, Kevin Spacey would be a natural match for the role. Instead, the award goes to Tom Hanks, who has a pointed nose, a gleaming chest, and a layer of fake fat. For Hanks fans such as me, these are perplexing times; compare the trailer for Disney's forthcoming "Pinocchio," in which Hanks inherits the part of Geppetto with an Einstein wig, a mustache, and, I guess, yet another nose. Currently, for whatever reason, this most dependable of performers has decided to hide in the shadows and specializes in manipulating strings, whether they be evil or good. According to one of Parker's several voice-overs, "I did not murder him. I created Elvis Presley." It is an actual boy!

How can you make a star-based desire? Simple. Parker takes Elvis on a Ferris wheel, pauses at the top of the ride, and, like Satan, shows him all the kingdoms of the earth. Parker inquires, "Are you ready to fly?" Such sequences are not staged subtly, but Luhrmann, as seen in "Moulin Rouge!" (2001), makes a virtue of their lack of subtlety. There is little left unsaid or partially disguised. Young Elvis, for example, sees a pair of dancers writhing and perspiring to the lusty howl of the blues; he then dashes to a neighboring tent, slips inside, and joins a Black revivalist gathering, which gives him the Pentecostal shivers. The closeness of the two venues is preposterous, but it lets Luhrmann to emphasize his point: the Presley sound was formed with religious and profane passion. You do not say.

As with every narrative, there are omissions where they are least expected. Thus, each Elvis fanatic is well-versed in the legend of July 1954 — the late session at Sun Studio in Memphis, when Elvis, Scotty Moore, and Bill Black were displeased with what they had accomplished. As a joke, they started playing an old song titled "That is All Right, Mama" at a driven but drum-less lick. Sam Phillips, prompted into action by what he heard, instructed them to begin again. Imagine what Robert Altman or Jonathan Demme might have done with such a situation; it begs for dramatization. But Luhrmann scarcely glances at it. He favors stunning set pieces that are drawn out rather than trimmed down. Thus, he allots room to the iconic return show of 1968, with Elvis clad in black leather, and, subsequently, to a vast slab of Vegas-era glitz, with Elvis gleaming in studded white, like a mischievous angel on the loose. Both occurrences already have visual documentation, which is odd. "Elvis: That is the Way It Is," a 1970 documentary, immortalized the second. Both may be watched at your convenience. Luhrmann may be causing a ruckus, but lightning is nothing new.

Taking a toilet break in the midst of "Elvis" might cause you to miss the film's most exciting sequence. This montage is dedicated to Elvis's least successful period, during which he followed Parker's advice and moved west to become a movie star. The consequence was legendary masterpieces like as "Girls! Girls! Girls!" (1962) and "Clambake" (1967), while "Elvis" provides its protagonist with a leading man's sorrow. He adds, "I am so sick of playing Elvis Presley." My hypothesis is that Luhrmann, like other lovers, feels embarrassed by the sight of such lulls and wants to move on. Is he proper?