1980s, Crime/Detective, Music Film

The Cotton Club (1984)


Director: Francis Ford Coppola

By Roderick Heath

The history of Zoetrope Studios and Francis Coppola’s ill-fated efforts to build an independent studio into a real force after the unexpected success of Apocalypse Now (1979) is often used today as one of Hollywood’s key cautionary tales—or in the words of Homer Simpson: Never try. The vibrant and entertaining One from the Heart (1981), the flavourful Hammett (1983) and the aesthetically original Rumble Fish (1983) didn’t make money, which was kind of a problem considering they really, really needed to. Coppola, desperate for cash, was forced to sell off Zoetrope’s infrastructure. He was marked with a reputation as a loose cannon by studio bosses when he took up an offer from his old Godfather consigliore Robert Evans to come and save his splashy new production.

This film, inspired by a picture-book history by Jim Haskin on the glory days of New York’s one-time congress of cool, the Cotton Club, was due to begin shooting in a scant two weeks. Evans’ off-screen travails, which included the murder of one of the financers, were like something out of the movie he was trying to make. The major problem Coppola faced was that there was no ready, workable script to commence production with. Mario Puzo had written the first version of the screenplay, but Coppola quickly hired William Kennedy, author of the much-lauded novel Ironweed, to drum up a new script to be used in rehearsals. By Kennedy’s estimate, revisions during shooting would number up to 20 times, yet the problems were never really overcome.

The Cotton Club was a colossal flop, further damaging Coppola’s career. But The Cotton Club is a doggedly entertaining and interesting film that well and truly earns it place in Coppola’s cannon, with its high style and historically incisive bent. The story revolves around the conflicts three real-life gangland personages: Owney Madden (Bob Hoskins), owner of the Club and the city’s rock-steady chieftain; Dutch Schultz (James Remar), the most predatory and unstable new operator; and Lucky Luciano (Joe Dallensandro), the nascent empire builder.

Revolving around them are other partly disguised, historical protagonists: Bix Beiderbecke (with a dash of George Raft thrown in) reconfigured as Dixie Dwyer (Richard Gere); Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll as Dixie’s brother Vincent Dwyer (Nicholas Cage); Harold and Fayard Nicholas as Sandman and Clay Williams (Gregory and Maurice Hines); Lena Horne as Lila Rose Oliver (Lonette McKee); and Bumpy Johnson as Bumpy Rhodes (Laurence Fishburne, who’d later play Bumpy in virtually the same film under the title Hoodlum in 1996). The contrast of brothers, Dixie and Vincent, Sandman and Clay, is right at home in Coppola’s oeuvre of familial love, creative partnership, and strife. Dixie, a talented cornet player and all-round charmer, catches Dutch’s eye one night at the same time both men also spy young flapper Vera Cicero (Diane Lane).

Dixie escorts the boozy girl home and declines to ravish her drunken bones. Soon, both are taken in by Dutch—Vera as his mistress, Dixie as his pet musician and general dogsbody, each aware of their suddenly limited options despite standing to gain a piece of Dutch’s considerable action. Dutch is a volcanically temperamental go-getter, and when Owney, the last court of appeal in the Manhattan demimonde, attempts to force a peace on Dutch and rival Joe Flynn (John P. Ryan) at a swanky soiree, Flynn’s incessant swearing and racism drives Dutch to knife the Irish hood to death, infuriating Madden and kicking off a turf war with the Italian, Irish, and Negro gangs that Dutch means to win.

Vincent opportunistically uses his brother to get a job with Dutch, but soon enough becomes an independent gangster. He becomes infamous for a string of robberies and mob hits, one of which sees some youngsters accidentally gunned down, making Vincent persona non grata even in the gangland. The simultaneous tale of Sandman and Clay sees their tap act accepted at the Club, the most prestigious spot in town built around Negro art and artists who, farcically, can’t come in the front door. Sandman falls hard for gorgeous dancer and singer Lila Rose, but is persecuted by an apish, bullying supervisor (Ron Karabatsos) when he tries to romance her, and eventually falls out with Clay when he begins to work on making his own star rise. Madden eventually helps Dixie escape Dutch’s service and make it in Hollywood. He returns as a movie star ready to use his new status to pry Vera out of Schultz’s mitts just as Luciano is getting tired of the Dutchman’s antics and plans his elimination for the sake of general peace and Bumpy begins exerting some coloured clout to even the books in the Cotton Club.

After Apocalypse Now, Coppola’s cinema progressively became more formalist – experimenting with showy visual textures and low-key narratives, aiming for something close to a total cinematic stylisation, infused with an air of nostalgia and art-for-art’s-sake wistfulness. Apocalypse Now was utterly stylized, too, but its angry, violent engagement with a hot-button subject appealed. The new-age, old-style, inherently personal, romantic musical One from the Heart didn’t pack the same appeal despite the fact that it’s something like Coppola’s most personal masterpiece; The Cotton Club is many ways a follow-up, interweaving its melodrama with melody. The trouble is it neither gels as a work of sustained style nor as an epic melodrama: the distinct flavour of too many cooks making this broth is readily apparent.

The chief problem is one of focus, with theoretically crucial dramatic elements that never quite work; the central romance of Dixie and Vera never catches alight, their love-hate sparring more the spats of spoilt brats than destined lovers caught in the grasp of an ogre. Gere, at the height of his young, slippery charm, is fine, but Lane’s a flatly ordinary ingénue whose perfect jazz-baby face can’t disguise a lack of any projected character. Story threads that seem important, such as Sandman and Lila Rose’s romance, complicated by her desire to pass and make it in the larger showbiz world, don’t really go anywhere. Dixie hardly seems to notice or care when his rampaging brother is gunned down, without any commentary on familial fate realised as it was in the Godfather films. The subplot of Sandman and Clay is actually more vivid, but not given much time. One wonders how much coherence and substance hit the cutting room floor to get the running time down to a hair over two hours.

Somehow, however, The Cotton Club is a gift that keeps giving. It’s really about its marginalia, offering a cornucopia of images, homages and vignettes, and it can be regarded as a loose adaptation of the French classic Les Enfants du Paradis (1945), in the way it spins dramas around a performing venue, contrasts artists and gangsters as members of the demimonde, and sets up a power struggle of men over a woman who’s a general object of desire. Coppola views the racism and criminality that swirl around the Club with appropriately confrontational cynicism, but the film is more a celebration of cultural energy and awkward but vitality-inducing multiculturalism in melting pot New York. Dixie has sufficient chops as a cornet blower to be readily accepted by the black musicians he hangs out with, and eventually uses his clout as a movie star to break the Club’s strict colour barrier and sit in with the orchestra. Even the monstrous Dutch fancies himself something of a promoter of ethnic harmony. Moreover, Coppola adores and celebrates the old-school chutzpah of its musicians and dancers, leading to a finale in which the boundaries between art and life, realism and style, acting and dance, comedy and tragedy, melt away.

There’s nothing all that new about what Coppola was doing: many Warner Bros melodramas of the 30s and 40s, best typified by Casablanca (1942), sustained such a sublime interaction. Coppola pays homage to that film with the Cotton Club serving, like Rick’s Café, as a crossroads of society, using the musical acts to divide and comment upon the actions, sporting some terrific performances from the Hines brothers, McKee, and Larry Marshall’s awesome impersonation of Cab Calloway. Coppola offers backstage sequences in the Club when Sandman and Clay audition, being as it is the place everyone wants to get into either as guest or performer, and very few succeed.

It takes over 40 minutes before the camera enters the Club through the front door and the panoramic spectacle of the place in full swing is offered, Coppola’s rapidly gliding crane camera roaming the space in a sequence that’s the near-equal of the similar Copacabana sequence in Goodfellas (1990). Thus the film’s most memorable sequences tend to be wondrous little throwaways, like when Sandman takes Lila Rose to a club for old dancers that results in a dance-off between the hoofers; Dixie’s mother (Gwen Verdon) casually schooling a girl in Central Station in a shuffle; Sandman and Clay reuniting through a tap routine that ends in the two halting mid-act and embracing; Bumpy’s brief soliloquy on the exigencies of survival as a black man; Diane Venora’s spot-on cameo as Gloria Swanson, telling Dixie he has It; the motor-mouthed commentary by a Hollywood boss and his Yes Man underling whilst watching Dixie’s screen test.

Best of all is the interaction between Owney and his hulking enforcer Frenchy Demange (the great Fred Gwynne), as when Frenchy smashes Owney’s watch when he thinks his friend failed to fork out enough dough to ransom him back from Vincent. Hoskins and Gwynne walk off with the film, though Remar’s weird Schultz is a worthy for this connoisseur of screen villainy, with his obvious social discomfort bubbling in all his scenes, his mouth twisting into a perpetual grimace of displeasure, his voice in moments of extreme outrage dipping into a low, troll-like croak. Around them bubbles an entirely notable cast, sporting the likes of Tom Waits (who had provided the soundtrack of One from the Heart) as the club’s gruff emcee, the amusingly cast Factory himbo Dallesandro, and future notables, like favourite nephew Cage, Lane, Fishburne, Jennifer Grey, Giancarlo Esposito, and daughter Sofia as a street waif.


10 thoughts on “The Cotton Club (1984)

  1. A fine piece on a flick I’ve yet to see. But I have always had a soft spot in my heart for post-Apocalypse Now Coppola.
    But given GFI, II and Apocalypse Now — not to mention “The Conversation” — can one really say that “One From the Heart” is something like his masterpiece?


  2. Rod says:

    Well if nothing else it might start an argument…
    Shall I say that it could be his most fully realised project? I find The Conversation admirable but also oblique and pretentious, and The Godfather films are all uneven to my mind and deserve being roughed up more than they are. Apocalypse Now is a mighty piece of work but it’s also fractious and intellectually confused (not that there’s anything wrong with that). One From The Heart is…well, the title says it. It’s a very privately motivated film that’s also a sublime piece of cinema.


  3. I haven’t seen One from the Heart, but I pretty much agree with your comments on the other Coppola pictures, Rod. The Godfather films owe some of their unevenness, in my opinion, to the source material. While Coppola goes a long way toward correcting Puzo’s best-seller histrionics, he does latch on to the operatic elements with a bit too strong a hand – literally, in the case of the last film.


  4. This has always been a film of style to me. I don’t pass up a chance to catch it, even a snippit, from cable. It hypnotizes me anywhere I come in. The characters flow back like old friends from High School sometimes painfully like school bully Dutch or tough Hoskins, but always a full reward for dropping in. I’m so glad you took your time on this one Rod it is worth all the praise and critique you foisted on it, and much more. Thanks for the snapshot of a movie experience always worth remembering.


  5. Marilyn, I thought he pretty much transcended his source on Godfathers I and II, and that Puzo was one of the luckiest hack-writers around …
    And Rod, I agree that “Apocalypse Now” is one big, glorious mess, but “Redux” is a much-needed re-visiting.


  6. Rod says:

    Mare: It’s not the operatic quality of the Godfather films that I mind – and in fact I rather sneakingly prefer the full-on indulgence of it in Part III rather than the too-too serious moodiness of the first two (I’m only speaking relatively here; make no mistake, I do think they’re all truly great films). It’s just that as gangster films I find them more mythological than sociological, which is why I can’t place them as highly as I do Mean Streets and Goodfellas.
    Shane: Glad you liked it. You’re on the money when you call Dutch like a school bully.
    Rick: On my 100 Film, 100 Directors list over on This Island Rod, Apocalypse Now is my Coppola film of choice; and it will go on being that. It’s one of the greatest films ever made, and Redux expands its scope greatly. But it’s also a work of deep moral and ethical confusion, and in terms of its main character, walks around in circles. Where One From The Heart is surely simpler, puny in its scope,but it has more emotional clarity; it shows something of Coppola the inner man, I feel, more than any of his earlier, more lauded works. Apocalypse Now is greater; 1FTH is more perfect.


  7. Rod – I think gangsters have long been the subject of myth. It is only in more recent times that the sociological aspects have dominated the screen. Particularly when Coppola was making the Godfather films, the outlaw was definitely the hero – Easy Rider, Bonnie & Clyde, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It makes sense for Coppola to carry on in this tradition, but I don’t know if I’d characterize the Corleone family as one fit for the tragedy of opera. Michael’s extreme ruthlessness shows his heart was always rotten. He should be the hissworthy Scarpia of this tale, but he’s not. He’s also not Lulu, elementally amoral but without self-awareness. He’s really just a thug.


  8. Rod says:

    Oh there’s question that Gangsters and the films about them both adore mythology. It’s simply that the air of awesome Augustianian weightiness they’re imbued with in The Godfather films is something I distrust. Granted, Part II goes a long way to dissect Michael’s mythos, but it still leaves a romanticism in the myth of his father intact, and lets the Corleone’s private propaganda that theirs was a legitimate response to an already bought-and-sold world pretty much stand.
    But Michael’s pretty honestly portrayed as self-defined, emotionally hollowed man at the end of the first film, as it is. His redeeming characteristic – his real belief that he has to act to save the people his loves and the institution they gave their lives for – reduces him to a lying, fairly hiss-worthy guy as it is. The thing is, many, many men identify with him. He’s an avatar for inheriting responsibility and familial position, accepting that in all its often dirty and self-betraying meaning.
    To be honest, though, my biggest problem with the first two films is the amazingly awful histrionics of Talia Shire and Diane Keaton.


  9. Yes, yes. Those women were awful in these films. Michael’s change to someone so cold that he would kill his own brother just doesn’t ring true for me, even given the loss of his bride, Sonny, and pop. After all, the men were ruthless killers themselves and he knew it. It was all there just waiting to come out; he was not a hollow vessel waiting for hate to pour in. I believe that men identify with his sense of responsibility, but to this extent? Roger Ebert gives a compelling look at the POV of the Godfather films in his Great Movies series, which is the only one that almost convinces me that there is something to be said for the Corleone self-mythologizing. But my heart is with Leonardo Sciascia’s portrayal of the Mafia in Day of the Owl (Mafia Vendetta in some editions) – kind of dumb, reactive bottom feeders.


  10. Rod says:

    Well, I do find it believable, because the point that GFII tries to reach is precisely the conclusion that no matter what the self-justification and aura of majestic weightiness of decision, anyone who’s capable of repetitively killing perceived enemies and traitors is sooner or later going, through pure logic and willingness, kill someone too close to home. That last shot of the second film is indeed classic because it captures a man who’s not entirely sure when he crossed the line between being man and monster. The trouble is, the way it all plays out is more Roman than Mafia.


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