I was frightened half to death. The opening sentence of the press kit for “Little Richard” says, and I quote, “He is widely recognized as the true architect of rock ‘n’ roll, a charismatic performer who helped turn a brief musical movement into a lasting phenomenon.”
Oh man! How about “He’s the true architect of Dennis Rodman?”
Anyway, it sounded like this movie was going to be more painful than one of those gas bag treatises you read (or don’t) in The Sunday Times about “the cultural impact of hip hop on transgendered art.” Or something.
So I almost didn’t watch it. But I did because, well, they made me.
I was wrong. The movie starring, Leon (not Little Leon, not Big Leon, just Leon) is pretty damn good.
It was neither a wholly whitewashed nor a blackwashed version of his life as a poor kid from Georgia in full makeup. Although the movie version is clearly a lot less painful than it really was.
But then, so are all “rock legend” movies with the exception of things like “Sid and Nancy.”
The real glitches are the early costumes.
Since when did dirt farmers in 1940’s Georgia look like they were in full Brooks Brothers?
At least Little Richard — even when he still was literally little Richard — always preferred knee-length cocktail dresses.
The movie hints (big, big hints) about his affairs with men, women, and well, whatever else came his way. Even if the movie stunk, the original music would have carried it by itself.
Leon is particularly shameless and flamboyant in the part, which again, unless they cast Dennis Rodman, is pretty tough to do.
Richard has a long-term affair with Lucille, (Tamala Jones) of the hit song, “Lucille”) who is oversexed and quite gorgeous.
When she wants to get married, Little (if I may be so bold) tells her that he can’t because well, he has to remain true to the “other parts of myself.”
Hell, she doesn’t care what parts he wants for himself, she’ll take him as long as he marries her. He doesn’t and instead makes a hit (“Lucille”) out of his misery.
He becomes a giant, and is accepted even though he wears makeup and prances around like Judy Garland on speed.
He makes his band members wear makeup on stage — and you thought David Bowie was the first out-there queen of rock — and even confronts one of them when he complains.
“If you’re gonna call me a sissy,” he says, “you better call me a rich sissy!”
In the middle of a concert in Australia, Richard mistakes Sputnik for God and decides to forsake his giant career in music for a higher calling as a minister.
He still is a man of God. And a rock ‘n’ roller. And a makeup maven.
He’s fond of saying his belief in the Lord is stronger than ever, and so is his belief in Pancake #31.
Aside from the fact that the architect of rock ‘n roll, broke color and gender barriers, and made great music, his most endearing legacy, for me, anyway, is his disgust of Pat Boone who covered his songs for the white radio stations.
“Pat Boone was terrible,” Richard still rages. But, ah, revenge is a dish best served up cold.
Last year Pat Boone, who may be delusional, cut a rap record wearing black leather, while Little Richard is still king.
Amen.
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“Little Richard”
Sunday at 9 p.m. on WNBC/Ch. 4