THE STORY – New York, June 1961. Legendary jazz pianist Bill Evans has found his musical voice and created the perfect trio, including bass player Scott LaFaro, his musical soulmate. A residency at New York’s Village Vanguard culminates in the live taping of two of the greatest jazz records of all time in one day. Only a few days later, LaFaro dies tragically in a car crash. Numb with grief, Evans stops playing for the first time since his childhood. This is the story of what happened next for one of the most influential and gifted figures in 20th-century music.
THE CAST – Anders Danielsen Lie, Bill Pullman, Laurie Metcalf, Barry Ward & Valene Kane
THE TEAM – Grant Gee (Director) & Mark O’Halloran (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 102 Minutes
“Everybody Digs Bill Evans” is the title of the famed jazz artist’s second album, released in December 1958, a few years before the events depicted in Grant Gee’s film. And even without that real-life detail, it would be the perfect title for a movie that explores the musician’s relationships with other people, whether family, friends, or love interests. And though it may not look like anything particularly new (among other things, Ryan Gosling’s wardrobe in “La La Land” was inspired by Evans), it’s an engrossing take on (part of) the life of a great man in American culture.
Of course, part of the film’s charm is that, while it deals with a US musician, it’s largely a European endeavor: Gee (making his fiction debut after years of documentaries, including a few about bands such as Joy Division and Radiohead) is British, and the film is a co-production between Ireland and the UK (that the Evans family was of Welsh descent leads to one of the funnier moments in the film, when Bill’s father rants about the Irish); principal photography took place in County Cork, standing in for 1960s and ’70s New York and Florida; and the vast majority of the supporting cast is either Irish or British.
And then there’s the lead, the Norwegian actor Anders Danielsen Lie, previously known primarily for his collaborations with Joachim Trier and for playing Anders Behring Breivik in Paul Greengrass’s Utøya drama “22 July.” Unsurprisingly, given his Nordic upbringing (films not meant for children are always subtitled in Scandinavia), he disappears fully into the American skin of Bill Evans, mastering the accent and mannerisms to such a degree it’s initially hard to recognize him, in part due to the glasses and hairstyle, and in part because of the black-and-white cinematography that signposts the 1961 sequences (scenes taking place in the 1970s are in full, saturated color, as though Evans were auditioning for a cop movie).
Before he opens his mouth, though, we’re treated to an opening credits sequence highlighting the skill at play as Bill musically interacts with his artistic soulmate Scott LaFaro, with whom – per the title cards at the beginning – he spawned two of the best live recordings in jazz history. From the get-go, we’re swept up in this world of syncopated beats and moody improvisations. It’s in this scene especially that Gee’s background in music documentaries comes in handy, as he and cinematographer Piers McGrail treat the intro like an actual gig and not just a quick setup for the character-based drama that will unfold over the subsequent hour and a half (perhaps the film’s biggest flaw: it feels too short, even within the context of the limited scope of the story the filmmakers are focusing on).
Sadly, LaFaro died in a car crash mere days after the taping, which affected Evans’ desire to perform for a while. That’s where the plot properly kicks in, with Bill pondering his life choices – the music, his relationship with his longtime partner, his drug addiction – while he stays first with his brother’s family and then with his parents (the latter played by the only two Americans in the cast, Laurie Metcalf and a scene-stealing Bill Pullman). He doesn’t play anymore, but the notes are still there, as part of the film’s score, enhancing the scenes’ feel without ever coming across as particularly intrusive or manipulative.
Much like a melancholy jazz session, the film moves along unhurriedly, despite the relatively brief running time, and somewhat unpredictably: the first time jump – with the color transition – is a bit jarring, as if the genre and tone had suddenly changed out of the blue, but it only takes a minute or so before the prevalent atmosphere settles in again and it becomes clear the different years depicted on screen are part of the same, cohesive whole. Having said that, there’s an almost poetic quality to the aesthetically familiar but emotionally sincere 1961 section, the one that gets enough room to breathe properly, whereas the ’70s material feels a bit like an amuse-bouche for something more in-depth about that time period that never fully comes to fruition.
By the end, everybody does dig Bill Evans, even though he’s not always easy to put up with. The same can be said of the film, which doesn’t sugarcoat his personal shortcomings (his brother’s frustration at his grief-induced idleness, and the effect it could have on the youngest family member, is very relatable), but makes a very good case, for those who may have gone in unfamiliar with the man’s work, for his status as a great, influential artist. And if this is to be the beginning of a new stage of Grant Gee’s career, making fiction films, it’s certainly a very stylish, moodily compelling calling card.
