Jazz

I often want to live in films, but seldom ones this dour. But jazz clubs in the 50s, that’s my love language. Especially when it’s shot this beautifully, this dreamy. The faux-Paris streets at night are as out of this world as the soundtrack.

Round Midnight unfolds so nonchalantly, there’s almost no exposition. Things just happen. Sometimes they’re beautiful. Often they’re tragic.

Sometimes that’s one and the same.

Dexter Gordon is brilliant. Musically, obviously, and I’m glad he and Hancock got prizes for it. But with all due respect to Paul Newman, Gordon was robbed (I’d also take Hoskins in Mona Lisa over Newman, for the record). Incidentally, Newman was in the good but incomplete Paris Blues, a story that touches on the exiled black jazz musicians of Paris, something this movie greatly expands upon. Gordon wasn’t an actor, but he lived the part in real life. That doesn’t always work but when it is meant to inflect real life pain, it sure as shit does. He plays a composite of two real life musicians, but here he’s playing himself all the same.

Based on Francis Paudras’ memoir, we find the character of Francis outside the club on a rainy night, too broke to go inside but too in love with jazz and too indebted to Dale, whose music he fell in love with years earlier, not to huddle outside and take in what he can. They form a beautiful friendship, and while one could see Francis as someone suffering from a white savior complex, that would be dismissive. He sees Dale’s talent, but he also and more importantly he sees his pain. Unfortunately he cannot reconcile how one can exist with the other. He can’t understand how someone so brilliant can’t rub two nickels together, doesn’t understand addiction, and probably doesn’t understand the black struggle. He says on the first night he hears (not sees) Dale, that he played like a God. If our gods suffer, what does that mean for us?