Reviews of 'Bruce Almighty,'
'Only the Strong Survive'
and 'Manic'

By Esther Iverem
SeeingBlack.com Editor and Film Critic

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Bruce Almighty

Even if you don't like Jim Carrey, or have shied away from him since the omni-racist "Me, Myself and Irene," it's hard not to like "Bruce Almighty," a funny film that tackles big issues of Godly omniscience, human weakness and, indirectly, the neurotic state of American corporate and media life. (But I temper these remarks for those who can't stand seeing another Black man pushing a broom.)

Watch Bruce on TV. Watch Bruce smile and create a "human interest" story for a local news show in Buffalo, N.Y. Watch Bruce charm and schmooze with the boss. Then watch Bruce have an on-air meltdown. (Why did this sequence make me think of the New York Times and Jayson Blair?) While "Bruce Almighty" might get to the big issues, it gets to them by way of the sleazy and shark-infested waters of corporate life. What else could make a meek, sort of pitiful guy curse and tempt God, and tell God that he "sucks?"

In response to his tantrum, Bruce is brought into contact with THE ONE, not Neo of "The Matrix," but THE MAN UPSTAIRS who comes in the person of Morgan Freeman. Freeman is a very chilled-out God. As a matter of fact, his motto throughout seems to be that humility and modesty is best, so when Bruce first meets God, God is pushing a broom in a huge, empty warehouse. Of course Bruce gives God the disdainful half-acknowledgement accorded to a servant. A few minutes later, God is doing building repairs and then, moments later still, he peels off his overalls to reveal a gleaming white suit. God does it all and even "he" is subjected to our assumptions based on appearance and wardrobe. His point to a slow-to-believe Bruce is that since Bruce thinks that God is doing such a lousy job that maybe Bruce should try holding it down for a while. He is not, as in some blast from the cinematic past, doting or fatherly toward this somewhat pitiful White man. He offers Bruce do-it-yourself salvation.

And, of course, this is where the bigger fun begins. Bruce uses his new power like a kid. He wants to torment his nemesis at work and some street bullies. As you've seen on the previews, he makes the wind blow up a woman's dress so that her panties are exposed. Typically male, he doesn't improve his home situation—the dog does not learn to pee outside the house and he is oblivious to his girlfriend's ring finger itch—but he does buy a fancy import car. This is a Carrey comedy and nothing is taken too seriously—even by God. When Bruce asks to end world hunger and asks for peace, God compares such requests to "Miss America" drivel and asks him what he REALLY wants. (This is a Carrey comedy and women don't fare very well.)

Even before the bigger fun begins, Carrey is smooth as silk and likeable in this film. His finer acting abilities are able to merge with the over-the-edge persona we know so well. He flashes that smile, without the craziness underneath. As he learns lessons about true life miracles and individual transformation, he comes through as an average, flawed and struggling human, just like the rest of us.

Manic

There is such raw pain in "Manic" that it can’t help but spill from the screen. Adolescents holed up inside a mental institution are the players here and their assorted illnesses provide the wrenching drama of angst, anger, horrible violation, extreme longing and extreme violence.

Not all of the violence is physical but much of it is. When we first meet Lyle Jensen (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), his taut, expressionless face is battered. It looks like he has been the victim of a crime so it is a surprise when he is taken into custody and transported to another room in what is recognized as a mental health facility. There he comes into contact with other teen-agers who can be just as violent, who hold a rage just as burning. One of the most startling (and loud) scenes comes when Lyle and an accomplice play some heavy metal—the kind played at raves where there are legally sanctioned riots with violent mosh pits and body banging. Whipped up by the music, which seems to be an anthem for mayhem, the teens start to hurl their torsos at each other, swing on each other, turn over tables and throw chairs or any other object within reach.

Most the strength of this film, tightly wound by Jordan Melamed’s direction and the script by Michael Bacall and Blayne Weaver, is the extent to which it shows the source of outward violence to be inner turmoil. Lyle has such a rage that, placed in isolation, he can literally bounce off the walls. The audience learns slowly the social and family roots of his rage, just as we find that what ails so many of the teens has its roots in an environment or society that has abused or discarded them. This deeper insight isn’t delivered with melodrama. There are many moments of silence, as well as close-up, oddly-angled shots of eyes, faces and expressions.

And it is in the exploration of this turmoil that Don Cheadle stars as staff psychiatrist, Dr. David Monroe, who is in charge helping the young people to identify and manage their rage. Cheadle handles this role as he has others in the past—with a simplicity and subtle command of scenes that has allowed him to be, variously, a cop, a teacher, a beggar or a thief. I am not a huge Cheadle fan, so I’m not trying to blow kisses or smoke, but it is impressive how he projects a Black male sensibility and perspective into this film, which, for the most part, focuses on young Whites in a predominantly White world.

He is not the Bill "Bojangles" Robinson to a bunch of Shirley Temples. Though Cheadle has found himself in another role giving the assist to Whites, this script does not treat Dr. Monroe like the hired help. Not only does Monroe get the patients to confront the reasons for their being in the institution, he tries to help them to work through what ails them. In one scene, when Lyle goes into a rage and strikes another patient, Monroe strikes back verbally, asking him if his violence has helped the situation. He wants him to be able to cope with life with better skills. "Why are you here?" Monroe yells into Lyle’s face. "Life is a struggle—Can you handle that?"

Monroe’s question to Lyle is really the point of "Manic"—can these young White folks, with the help of a Black man, learn to handle their world?

Only The Strong Survive

What's not to like about Wilson Pickett?

It seems foolish, if not sacrilegious, to badmouth any effort at giving props to 1960s soul singers, many of whom have seen their hits become classics while they have gone uncompensated and become sidelined as artists. But overshadowing issues of form and fashion are the very real questions documentaries such as Only the Strong Survive, currently in limited release, bring up—they demand we undertake the very serious business of looking at history. What history is being told? Who is telling it? And what, exactly, is being said?

Once we examine these questions the 95-minute documentary, directed by Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker, begins to seem less than the sum of some very nice parts. The movie functions best as a slice of time in 1999 when these filmmakers, along with journalist Roger Friedman, filmed performances by and interviews with Sam Moore (of Sam and Dave), Mary Wilson, formerly of the Supremes, Wilson Pickett, Rufus Thomas and his daughter Carla Thomas. A few others are included, most notably Isaac Hayes, Jerry Butler and the Chi-Lites. There are some early references and connections made to the Rhythm and Blues Foundation, which has championed the cause of many performers who, unlike songwriters and producers, do not get paid royalties every time their song is aired.

But the documentary does not really explore the history—and economics—that help explain why such a foundation is necessary, or why so many of these now 60- and 70-something peformers are still on the road. I suppose it could be argued that by avoiding the fray, Only the Strong Survive avoids painting these artists into victims. Maybe, but by avoiding the topic the film is allowed to appear to be mainly about a love of the artists, and not be accused of having an "agenda." Into this seeming benign void, however, emerges a portrait of important Black artists now surrounded by, "saved" and appreciated by good-hearted White folks.

The documentary presents these artists often as pitiable relics and curiosities in a world that is very White — from fans to the on-camera wives of Moore and Thomas. The camera pans audiences of White folks standing, clapping and cheering. A deliberate effort must be made to find a Black face and, in one scene, a very plus-size sister is pulled up onto the stage (of course to the hoots and hollers of those around) and proceeds to do a big bump and grind with Wilson Pickett. Vintage footage rarely shows an interaction with the Black community that gave soul artists their start and that still supports many of them on the chitlin circuit of community fundraisers, neighborhood nightclubs and popular oldies revues.

It may be true that, given the Black music industry's almost total obsession with youth, these performers have indeed found themselves in a place where they are promoted primarily by Whites to White audiences. If this is their reality, it would have been helpful for the film to explore this idea — in particular, perhaps, to ask the artists themselves how they feel about it. Instead, the movie sidesteps race, leaving viewers to assume that the community that birthed this music and these musicians no longer supports them.

Because of this kind of unexplored and uncertain turf, Only the Strong Survive is valuable mostly as a record of some golden moments — and those are worth seeing. As history or meditation on soul music, it falls far short. We're still waiting for the film that can tell the true story of Black soul musicians — their strength and their surivival.

Esther Iverem's reviews often appear on BET.com and Africana.com.

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