The film Sparkle evokes
two flavors of Motown nostalgia. There’s nostalgia for the bygone days of ’60s
musical dominance, when the city’s streets overflowed with excitement and fresh
talent. Then there’s nostalgia for a more recent, vanished era when major
motion pictures were actually filmed in town.
Today’s hardscrabble Detroit
bears little resemblance to its mid-20th century heyday, but the production
found a handful of local spots that still exude their vintage flair: Cliff
Bell’s, Lafayette Coney Island and Baker’s Keyboard Lounge among the
still-intact relics of yesteryear. It’s fun to see these joints on the big
screen, even if their insertion into the storyline won’t really sell locals on
sometimes less-than-convincing period details.
The flick itself is a soapy
backstage showbiz melodrama, a cheesy remake of an even cheesier ’70s yarn
about an inner-city girl group struggling for a big break. It’s filled with
glitz, intrigue, drug abuse and lots of hair pulling and slapping, and it’s a
guilty pleasure to be sure, though not on the level of Dreamgirls, and
surely not Lady Sings the Blues. The music is pretty good, but the
script is pretty bad.
American Idol winner Jordin Sparks appropriately enough plays
“Sparkle,” the shy, studious, but talented middle daughter in a family singing
group, anchored by her dynamic, sultry older sister Tammy (Carmen Ejogo) whom
everyone just calls “Sister.” Sparkle is the brains of the outfit, writing the
tunes and trying to hold things together, but when she finally gets to belt out
a few tunes solo, she brings down the house.
Derek Luke, a blandly
handsome young actor prone to portraying sweetly dull boyfriends, stays true to
type here, playing an ambitious young talent scout-hustler called “Sticks” for
his prowess at the pool table. Mike Epps, a fixture in urban comedy films,
takes a mild detour from his usual foolishness as the sister’s abusive,
controlling, Ike Turner-like husband; keeping with the cutesy naming tradition,
he’s called “Satin.” Epps is particularly strong in the scene where his hack
comedian character battles a heckler; guess there’s no substitute for
experience.
If only there were more authenticity
in the film’s other key, and now sadly noteworthy performance, that of Whitney
Houston as the girls’ domineering, judgmental, Bible-thumping mother.
I know it’s tacky to
speak ill of the dead, but let’s be honest, Whitney was never a particularly
stellar actress, and her wobbly, overwrought and occasionally clueless work is
a bummer to build a legacy on. Houston does get to belt out one tune, a
thundering ballad backed by a rousing gospel choir, and in that moment we see
the sort of talent that can’t be faked, and that today’s slick, market-tested
pop products would be wise to emulate. Just as long as they get counseling when
they need it — and maybe some acting lessons too.
This article appears in Aug 15-21, 2012.