Mark Reviews Movies: LOUIS ARMSTRONG'S BLACK & BLUES

Louis Armstrong's Black & Blues, Apple Studios

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Review by Mark Dujsik | October 27, 2022

Director Sacha Jenkins' biographical documentary about Louis Armstrong, the jazz trumpeter more popularly known for his raspy but melodically fertile voice (one of the unique greats, to be sure), presents a mostly chronological account of the musician's life. That method isn't a hard and fast rule in Louis Armstrong's Black & Blues, though, because the film mostly revolves around anecdotes, told by those who knew him, those who have studied his life and music, and the man's own words.

Armstrong's own flair for storytelling comes through archival footage from multiple appearances on TV talk shows, of course, but it's also on display through his writings and the filmmaker's access to countless hours of homemade audio recordings the musician made over the course of his career. On television, Armstrong is typically as affable as he appeared on stage, a characteristic that had contemporarily drawn and still raises some criticism about how the man might have put some persona in order to help his career during segregation. He had to look and sound nice and, in the eyes of some, maybe a bit meek and submissive, in order to play in certain clubs, get on those TV programs, and appear in major Hollywood movies.

Jenkins' film isn't as certain about that critique. As evidence to the contrary or to diminish such ideas, he has testimony from those who knew the musician, yes, but the director also has those private tapes, recorded by Armstrong himself, as he sat and talked to others or just to put his own thoughts into the world in some way. Armstrong had enough wisdom and confidence to know that his story would be told one day, and there would be no one better qualified than himself to do the telling. Jenkins lets that be the case here.

That the film does focus quite a bit on race and Armstrong's place in the civil rights movement—or, as some have condemned, a notable absence from the conversation and any kind of action—might seem a restrictive approach. After all, this is story of the life, career, and accomplishments of an artist who broke so many barriers and became famous around the world at such a time in history. To ignore those barriers, though, would limit one's view of how talented the man was, and to evade questions about whether the public Armstrong was the same as the private one might not get to the truth of the film's subject.

If the documentary's narrative revolves around stories, then, the point of Jenkins film is as much to have a conversation about the man as to detail the course of his life. For the latter part, there's Armstrong himself, who explains his difficult childhood in New Orleans with some retrospective amusement (He or Jenkins bypasses a lot, but his youth, obviously, isn't the major point), and after learning to play the trumpet during a court-ordered stay at a home for wayward boys, Armstrong traveled to Chicago as a member of Joe "King" Oliver's band.

Whatever one might expect from the basics of how such a story is told, Jenkins establishes his approach early, with Armstrong's plain-spoken narration and an archival interview with the musician's second wife. She explains how Armstrong clearly outshone Oliver on stage, forcing the band leader to place him into a corner of the venue. The only reason Armstrong decided to take his career solo is because of an ultimatum from the woman who would become his wife: Stand up for himself, or she would have nothing more to do with him.

It's a funny little story, and there are others, mainly from Armstrong's recordings and definitely not all as amusing as that one. The Chicago and New York mobs got into a bit of a scrap over where he would play once Armstrong's star started to rise, leading to an east coast gangster to show up in his dressing room, ask him to move, and, when Armstrong said he was happy where he was, pull a pistol on him. "I guess I'm going to New York," Armstrong's voice announces that he quipped. Another has a Navy sailor coming up to him after a concert at Pearl Harbor, and while Armstrong laughs at the fan's exception to his engrained racism, we can hear the resentment in his understanding of what the episode meant in the bigger picture.

That's the big question Jenkins puts forth: Did Armstrong do enough in the fight for civil rights, or was he only concerned with his personal success, even to the point of playing up a public persona that might have played into certain racial stereotypes? That conversation is fascinating and thoughtfully presented, with modern-day jazz trumpeter Wynton Marsalis explaining the evolution of his own, conflicted opinion about Armstrong—the man and the public figure, but never the musician. In a recorded clip, actor Ossie Davis recalls working with Armstrong on set, having a set opinion about the musician's negative impact on how Black people were perceived, and coming to a revelation in seeing the man's loneliness and melancholy change on a dime.

That discussion continues, and Jenkins is generous, not only in giving Armstrong's critics a voice, but also in letting Armstrong's words and actions on the subject speak for themselves (The crisis of desegregating schools in Little Rock, for example, led to some pointed condemnation and an act of international protest on his part). Louis Armstrong's Black & Blues presents a vital conversation and a fine biography without allowing one mode—or one side of the conversation—overtake the other.

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