Film biographies live or die on the basis of the starring performance, and Naomi Ackie is by far this project’s strongest asset (although, in fairness, she’s surrounded by an equally strong supporting cast).
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| As her career explodes, and she finds herself surrounded by an increasing number of "takers," Whitney Houston (Naomi Ackie) knows that she always can trust Clive Davis (Stanley Tucci) to look out for her best interests. |
During the best and brightest moments, Ackie’s mimicry is almost eerie: the warmly radiant smile; the shrewd, theatrical hand gestures and body language; and — most crucially — the sheer magnetic presence this woman displayed, both on stage and during quieter moments. She lights up an otherwise quiet room, sucks all the air out of a massive, sold-out theater.
What Ackie does not do, however, is sing; she lip-synchs everything to Houston’s actual vocals. (It is, credit where due, extremely convincing lip-synching.)
This, perhaps, is the most visible example of the compromises, omissions and tread-very-carefully decisions that director Kasi Lemmons and scripter Anthony McCarten were forced to make, every step of the way: both in order to please the many surviving associates and family members, and to avoid potential defamation lawsuits.
This is most obvious during McCarten’s “softening” of Bobby Brown (Ashton Sanders), and the ludicrously restrained manner in which the film deals with his abusive behavior during their 14-year train wreck of a marriage.
On the other hand — and no doubt a reflection of our more enlightened times — McCarten’s depiction of Houston’s bisexuality is refreshingly frank, along with her long, complex relationship with best friend (and eventually executive assistant) Robyn Crawford (Nafessa Williams).
Their flirty, meet-cute connection, as young women, is one of this film’s many pleasures. Williams is similarly excellent as the effervescent lover turned steadfast, truth-telling watchdog, as Whitney’s career ascends and then heads into troubled waters. Robyn’s feisty, take-no-prisoners loyalty cracks only briefly, when the necessity of a heterosexual “image” derails any chance of a longstanding romantic relationship.
Robyn’s crestfallen expression — and rage — are heartbreaking, when this moment of truth arrives.
But that comes later. Following a brief prologue — which we’ll later revisit — the story opens in New Jersey in the late 1970s, as a teenage Whitney chafes as remaining a background singer in her church choir. This is according to the grand design of her mother, Emily “Cissy” Houston (Tamara Tunie), herself a famed soul and gospel singer who began as backup for Dionne Warwick, Elvis Presley and Aretha Franklin, before embracing a solo career.
But Cissy never hit the artistic stratosphere envisioned by her on-again/off-again husband, John (Clarke Peters), leading to their own marital strife, as Whitney grew up.
As a vocal coach, Cissy is firm but not unreasonable — even if Whitney believes otherwise — insisting that all great singing comes from the head, the heart and (most crucially) “the gut.” Although at times prone to stage-momism, Tunie’s performance ensures that Cissy’s behavior never becomes unpleasant or mean-spirited; she knows her stuff, particularly when it comes to a given song’s tempo and shading.
We’re left to wonder, given what eventually happens, if Whitney’s “never quite being good enough” for her mother, anticipates an important element of her career to come. Despite her phenomenal success and many awards, she chafed at having to be too much to too many people, and frequently was branded a sell-out by Black critics and listeners who regarded her music and style as “too white.”
Ackie is appropriately irate, during a radio interview, when she delivers Houston’s famous retort: “I don’t know how to sing Black, and I don’t know how to sing white. I know how to sing. Music is not a color to me.”
Cissy always has her daughter’s best interest at heart, but Peters’ John Houston is a domineering monster who demands unquestioning fealty from his “princess” and “Daddy’s girl,” even when it’s obvious that his motives are less than pure. It quickly becomes clear that he’s a greedy, scheming bastard who views his daughter — as her career rises — as an ATM with unlimited withdrawal privileges.
The film’s most notable standout performance, though, belongs to Stanley Tucci: sublime as legendary music executive Clive Davis, who “discovers” Whitney when she briefly takes the spotlight during one of her mother’s gigs at Sweetwater’s Club, in New York City’s Upper West Side (Cissy having feigned laryngitis). Cue Whitney’s breathtaking rendition of “The Greatest Love of All,” which — check Tucci’s expression — clearly moves Clive to his socks.
Their subsequent dynamic, once he takes her under his wing, is totally endearing. The best moments come during “exploration sessions,” when Clive plays an endless series of demo tunes and songs performed by other singers, waiting for Whitney’s eyes to sparkle, followed by the mischievous, excited grin that indicates she senses a winner.
Ackie and Tucci are marvelous together; his sensitive, quietly understated performance is certain to garner an Oscar nomination.
Many of this film’s bravura musical sequences are re-created as they actually occurred, such as Houston’s epic performance of the National Anthem during the 1991 Super Bowl. Other hits are inserted into the developing drama by music supervisors Becky Bentham and Maureen Crowe, and cleverly reflect the joy or trauma of Houston’s life at a given moment: often cross-cutting between performance and interpersonal conflict, thanks to Daysha Broadway’s deft editing.
Many of the performances run long, granting an ample — and welcome — reminder of the sheer bravura intensity of Houston’s voice.
Alas, Houston’s tragic death in 2012 remains too fresh; the knowledge of what is to come, hangs like a shroud over this film’s third act. Diana Ross faced a similar challenge when she made Lady Sings the Blues only 13 years after Billie Holiday’s death; it’s a Hollywood axiom that those who overcome early challenges en route to success, only to slide into crisis, deserve redemption in the final act.
But there can be no redemption here, as also was the case with Holiday. Although Lemmons and McCarten set up the crushing final hotel scene, they pull back and instead conclude their film where it begins: as Houston delivers her famous, jaw-droppingly powerful medley — “I Loves You Porgy,” “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” and “I Have Nothing” — during the 1994 American Music Awards.
Fade to black, and to a series of text blocks that detail what happened next.
Although this film is a fitting tribute to Houston’s impressive career, it can’t help feeling a bit superficial: more valentine than objective study.
Which, I’m sure, will be sufficient for her fans.
[As a passing sidebar, about half a dozen film critics — myself included — were the sole white attendees at Tuesday evening’s theatrical preview screening. If that reflects current race relations in Sacramento, it was a shameful statement.]
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