In Spite of Itself: The Cinematic Genius of Purple Rain

Some of my favorite movies teeter on a line between genius and absurdity. Purple Rain practically embodies this concept. A anemically-plotted vanity project in honor of the alien superentity formerly known as Prince Rogers Nelson, Purple Rain is loaded with hokey dialogue, wild improbabilities, and a bafflingly erratic tone. Leaping from melodramatic to goofy to preachy at a moment's notice, it's a rollercoaster ride of what-the-fuck moments. One of the best of these finds Prince (portraying his cinematic alter-ego "The Kid") storming into his house to locate and confront his wife-beating father, shouting "Where are you? Where are you motherfucker?" and executing a flawlessly smooth spin, complete with delayed headsnap.

And yet . . . and yet. In spite of itself, Purple Rain is one of the most outlandishly enjoyable movies ever conceived. That is thanks most obviously to the utter musical genius of Prince, who, at the absolute peak of his powers, conceived a streamlined, polished collection of songs that were all the best things about pop music in one package. And that music is employed perfectly; Purple Rain's script may have been slapdash, but Albert Magnoli's music video direction skills ensure that each song is employed to maximum effect, either accompanying and illuminating the (admittedly meager) story, or most wonderfully, in performance.

One of the film's most absurd conceits is that somehow, at the Minneapolis club where the Kid and the Revolution sweat it out night after night, The Revolution is the least popular act, and in danger of losing their gig. Apparently the Kid "plays a lot of shit that no one wants to hear." The real draws are the dude who sings the "I want to be a mountaineer!" song, and of course, Morris Day and the Time. In actuality, and in the viewer's eyes, Prince (sorry, "The Kid") smokes them nightly.

But that wouldn't fit with the angsty storyline: the Kid has a rotten homelife. His father's a drunk, a failed songwriter, and on top of all that, he's too bold, whereas his mother is never satisfied. Morris Day plays the malevolent and preening rival for club supremacy, and for the affections of the lovely Apollonia, who wants to be a star, and seems willing not only to get naked and jump in a lake, but also to perform in lingerie singing about how she's a "Sex Shooter." Clearly those qualities go hand in hand.

But all of these bizarre elements somehow fall into place when Prince takes the stage, or at least cease to matter. His performances ("The Beautiful Ones," "Darling Nikki," and the ecstatic encore in particular), are a mesmerizing barrage of twirls, splits, yelps, croons, squeals, guitar solos, choreographed dance routines, emotional breakdowns, and stage humping. Prince is a total presence, a force of nature, completely engaged and committed, seeming to invest every ounce of himself and his outsized person into the playing, singing, and movement. It's ironic that Prince is such a laughable actor off the stage, because he sells these songs with a depth of emotion that makes it seem like you really are in a nightclub, hearing each one for the first time. The shot of him lying on his back on the stage, shrieking the last few pleas of "The Beautiful Ones" as hands reach out to touch him is the most quintessential of the film.

For all its goofball twists and turns, Purple Rain actually succeeds on an emotional level, if only when the music's playing. We may not believe the Kid's familial agony, but when he launches into the title song, the most soulful and towering power ballad ever penned, dedicating it to his troubled father, somehow all that drama is a lot easier to buy. Through the power of the music, all the bizarro comedy and idiosyncrasies becoming endearing, rather than distracting from the film's genuinely successful elements. Purple Rain could have just been an extended music video but the slick production's wacky energy and enthusiasm kicks it up a notch. Dated? Yes. But it's a hell of a fun movie, and what's more timeless than fun?

(Ed. - It has come to my attention following my writing of this article that the above "mountaineer" song is in fact "Modernaire" sung by Prince's former guitarist Dez Dickerson. I, however, chose to keep it as "mountaineer" in the article, both because it's funnier, and because I was misinformed for so long that it will always be "mountaineer" to me.)

Black Mountain - In the Future

The bottom line for any explicit throwback act is this; is there more in the end than the sum of the band’s influences? For some (think, gee, I dunno, Jet, Wolfmother, any cut-and-paste retro rock outfit) the answer is, regrettably, no. But then there are bands like the Black Lips, obviously indebted to a specific time period and style (trashy, sub-Nuggets 60’s garage rock) but rising above through their personal flair and idiosyncrasies.

Black Mountain may tread more of a grey area. “Don’t Run Our Hearts Around,” from their eponymous 2005 debut, was a pummeling Sabbath-style riff fest, and the whole album rocked to a 70’s vibe. That vibe permeates In the Future as well, and the music itself has gone closer to the source. The opening rumble of “Stormy High” may give some a tentative feeling, but when the guitars kick up into the vocal sections, Stephen McBean and Amber Webber’s harmonies dispel any doubts. Their mystical, creaking voices wrap strong, direct melodies around the riffage, elevating it above slavish imitation.

In fact, many of the most striking moments on In the Future don’t come from the guitars. The rhythm section shows its versatility on “Wucan,” reminiscent of the debut’s narcotic funk-a-thon “Druganaut.” A major standout, “Wucan” also features great vocal interplay from Weber and McBean, a guitar line that’s evocative without being derivative, and epic contributions by what sounds like an army of vintage synthesizers. The keyboard factor is a plus throughout the album, injecting a trippy, proggy element that spices up the formula. The big climax of slow-burner “Angels” comes from a massive-sounding Mellotron, certainly not the only point at which early King Crimson is a clear touchstone. Amber Webber’s showcase “Night Walks” closes the album with another reminder of how well the group creates beautiful sounds, as her voice mingles with static vibrating synths and a bed of echo.

The necessary folky comedown numbers work well, sold by some lovely, well-sung melodies. The ballads are well-placed to contrast with the epic rockers, of which “Tyrants” is the first. The slow, melodic sections actually work better than the rockouts, which are satisfying but predictable.

The ultimate test of the album is its longest track, “Bright Lights,” which clocks in at sixteen plus. But what could have been bloated and unconvincing actually works, because it’s stuffed with such a wealth of musical ideas. It is here that all the handpicked elements of their psychedelic influences come together. The guitars move and dive like rollercoasters, the organ stabs, Amber Webber’s Grace Slick vocals weave in and out, riding the riffs. The druggy mumbo-jumbo of the “bright light/light bright” repetitions may test your patience, but give it time; after an intense, steamrolling rock section, the song is pared down to a ghost of itself, complete with funereal organ and wraithlike synths, before slowly building to a roar again.

In the Future succeeds because it isn’t overshadowed by its influences, even if it can’t entirely escape them. But they’re well beyond imitators, and at no point will you think “gee, I could just be listening to . . .” because Black Mountain pumps fresh blood into vintage sounds. The monolithic guitars and cosmic synthesizers sounds just as good filling a room as on big Dazed and Confused headphones, with the voices of Stephen McBean and Amber Webber keeping it organic, human, and most of all rocking, all the way to the end.