Review: "Ma Rainey's Black Bottom" Hits the Sweetest High Notes

Scene from Ma Rainey's Black Bottom

To sing the blues is to pour your heart out to the world. With every aching note, the struggles of the individual reflect a community eager to be heard. It's something that lives inside the Black community, serving as a survival tool throughout years of oppression and reminding everyone what it means to be human. But given how diverse the voices within this group are, one has to ask the question: what is the blues? Who gets to control the direction that it goes? Throughout director George C. Wolfe's fantastic adaptation of Ma Rainey's Black Bottom, he explores this question in great detail over a sweltering summer day in 1927. What follows is a phenomenal showcase of talent, finding Chadwick Boseman and Viola Davis butting heads with electric performances and even more energetic music. It's one of the year's most vibrant stories and one that never lets up for the entire ride.

At the center of the story is Levee (Boseman): a young horn player obsessed with being the vanguard. While he's there with the aged musicians, he has dreams of moving the blues in new directions. He doesn't want to play the way Ma Rainey (Davis) does. He has to go fast and loose in the recording studio, believing that it's more authentic and honest. This becomes an issue because Ma Rainey isn't just another artist. She is the proclaimed "Mother of the Blues," whose waning career needs this record to be a massive hit. As she brings her children into the studio, she envisions a better future for them, seeing their youthful optimism as a chance to create something more organic. Though, much like Levee, knowing Ma Rainey doesn't make them any closer to understanding the blues. 

It shines through in small ways, such as when her son Sylvester (Dusin Brown) is encouraged to do the introduction of the song only to stumble with a lisp. Ma Rainey's belief in Sylvester frustrates the other musicians as much as Levee, the heat likely only adding to the endless disastrous takes. The blues will survive, but it feels like it's going to in an all-out brawl between the musicians and the white recording staff that hopes to profit off of the record. They understand the appeal of Ma Rainey, or more importantly what her name symbolizes. She has a fan base. It's arguably the only reason that they put up with her. Meanwhile Levee, for all his talents, tries too hard to be new and fresh. Nobody wants that, and it only fuels his cockiness.

To witness what Boseman does with his performance is to see an actor reaching greater potential. While his short career was full of charismatic turns, this is one of the few to draw upon something greater, an instinct firing on all cylinders as he mouths off, the delicious August Wilson dialogue pouring out of him so effortlessly. It's difficult to not become entranced by him, to believe that he can achieve his goals even among arrogance. Even when facing against the downtrodden Davis, whose sagging physical appearance alone suggests her tiredness, reflects just how at odds these ideas are. It's the struggle of the old way to stay true, to believe that there are some ties to a bygone era that Levee would never understand. He may understand the racial politics that has harmed their culture, but will he ever understand the blues on a very personal note?

If Levee and Ma represent a generational divide, then Cutler (Colman Domingo) represents the median, a compassionate middle-man who has been through the muck and knows how hard it is to record a single. Despite his desire to defuse any tension, he slowly becomes a symbol for that insecurity, serving as a wall between them while Levee brandishes a knife and decries spirituality. Yes, a simple blues recording session comes to embody much more about what it means for each character to have hardships, to feel like their moment in the sun will never come. It's an eagerness that makes Domingo's performance excellent, managing to rationalize the anger as something realistic. Musicians in general have to struggle to make it, and the fact that Cutler may never get his respect only shows something horrifying for where Levee could possibly end up.

There's a vibrant use of music in the film that slowly conveys something deeper about every character. For Ma, it's a powerful voice belted from a weary body that still needs to be heard. For Domingo, it's the simple act of synchronicity, playing his trombone and counting in Dusin. For Levee, it's simply feeling like what he has to say matters at all. The blues can't die with the previous generation. He needs to keep it going, and his spontaneity clashes even in musical form throughout the recording. It's a credit to Wolfe that it all flows swiftly, never letting the exhaustive recording process feel like a bore. Just as one conflict settles, another starts with an offhand remark, starting another set piece of acting that serves as some of the year's best.

Like the best of Wilson, Ma Rainey's Black Bottom is an accomplished portrait of the Black American identity. Even within its claustrophobic setting, it manages to convey the familiar themes of generational divides, race relations, and spirituality in such a way that it becomes a compelling essay of what the blues actually mean. The song being recording doesn't matter as much as the people doing it, trying to preserve their passion on vinyl for generations to come. If they can get it into stores and have their hard work recognized, who knows what they could do for future generations. This is a story of why art will always matter not only as a unifier but as personal forms of expression. Who gets to control the blues? The answer may be a lot more complicated than you'd think.