The United States vs. Billie Holiday (2021)

 Score: 4 / 5

"All of Me" is the featured song of this film, and I'm more than a little surprised it wasn't chosen to be the title. Because indeed we are treated to all of Billie Holiday in this dramatization of her life. Showcasing her brilliant artistry, the film nevertheless creeps into her infamous personal life in the 1940s, as her problems with alcohol and drugs became public knowledge. And much like her vocal style, unconventionally jazzy and swinging with unusual phrasing, the film tries hard to make a case for another adaptation of her life story. It doesn't always succeed in that endeavor -- though Lady Day's legacy surely calls for more visions like this -- because the plot and themes are now cliché: fame and wealth motivate stress to find self-destructive release through substance abuse and abusive relationships. 

What saves this movie from others of its ilk -- those that often cut-and-paste bits of an artist's life to show how fame corrupts and destroys -- is its darker, external story of the targeting of Billie Holiday by the government in their so-called War on Drugs. The United States vs. Billie Holiday, the title taken from this highly publicized but notably shady series of encounters, makes Harry Anslinger, the first chief of the government's Bureau of Narcotics, the white villain. Played by Garrett Hedlund, Anslinger is a cardboard cutout racist, of the "jazz is jungle music" variety. This explains his apparent obsession with Billie Holiday, whose new single "Strange Fruit" is making big waves for the singer who usually sings romantic songs about love. The song, about the lynched bodies of Black people, of course upsets the people looking to racialize the war on drugs. Before you criticize that judgment, take a look at how Judy Garland was treated by law enforcement and the press and compare the two cases.

The movie suggests, quite clearly, that Anslinger has authored Holiday's troubles, from losing her license to perform to being victimized in a drug bust arranged by dirty cops who planted evidence. Much of the dramatic tension of the film, however, focuses on Holiday's relationship with Jimmy Fletcher, an up-and-coming FBI agent trying hard to be a sort of model Black man in a white boys' club. Played by the amazing Trevante Rhodes (Moonlight, Bird Box), Jimmy is not unlike O'Neal in this year's Judas and the Black Messiah, which works on some similar themes, in that he has been seduced into helping to bring down a popular Black artist and activist for the government. A quick Google search unfortunately shows that much of this character is drastically different than his real-life counterpart, but the change allows Holiday to have quiet, romantic, and sensual dynamics to her character that would otherwise be difficult for the performer to rely upon.

And what a performer. Andra Day is nothing short of astounding as Billie Holiday, from her looks to her impossibly accurate singing voice. In her big moments -- of which the film features many -- she outshines everyone around her. I find myself now more concerned about the film's bizarre editing techniques, its thematic suggestions to a streaming audience, and its lavish production values, but while I was watching, I didn't care about anything as long as the star was on screen. She takes this vehicle and rides it hard, letting the gritty, cruel underbelly of her life motivate every look and every note. It helps that, when she's first introduced, she's squaring off with a deliciously naughty Leslie Jordan as he interviews her about her legacy.

Then again, with such a sprawling story, it was difficult to always know what else deserved paying attention to. Her friendship with Tallulah Bankhead -- surely ripe for dramatization -- is forgettably and regrettably brief. Each new friend or assistant in her circle becomes an addict like her, resulting in seemingly endless scenes of people tying off and shooting up, sometimes with unexpectedly graphic attention by a voyeuristic camera. Are we meant to feel uneasy due to our own worship of celebrity culture? Maybe, but the film doesn't do enough to make us feel voyeuristic except in two or three notable scenes, as long takes drag us through especially traumatizing scenes from her life.

Lee Daniels always makes interesting movies, but the audacity of Precious and The Paperboy is utterly absent here. This reminds me a bit more strongly of The Butler, a similarly serious, sentimental, and sprawling account of a long life well-spent, or rather, well-serving. In recalling my viewing experience, I found the film lovely and challenging and entertaining, but in remembering the film itself, it's hard for me to say it wasn't unfocused. Or even that it had much to say other than "Don't do drugs" and "white cops are bad for Black people", things we don't need to watch a Black woman suffer through to understand.