Take it from the Top
Too Late Blues focuses on jazz musician “Ghost” Wakefield (a revelatory Bobby Darin), leader of a small combo that ekes out a low-rent existence with gigs at orphanages and public parks. Ghost snubs any job that might compromise his musical integrity, but the aimless drift of his happy-go-lucky existence acquires a sudden urgency when he falls hard for the mildly talented, emotionally burned-out singer Jess Polanski, played to a ravishing T by Stella Stevens. An unexpected recording gig holds out the promise of a long-awaited career breakthrough, but Ghost’s hubris soon triggers an emotional crisis that leaves him bitterly estranged from Jess, his agent Benny Flowers (with whom he enjoys a mutual-hate relationship) and the boys in the band.

Trading self-respect for self-pity, Ghost accepts a Faustian bargain, becoming the boy toy of “The Countess” (a past-her-prime socialite with a jazz-musician fetish) in exchange for a gig on the spiritually numbing but financially rewarding cocktail lounge circuit. His disgust with this sleazy arrangement eventually precipitates a volcanic showdown with Benny, who hammers Ghost with some painfully hard truths that shatter his few remaining illusions. Having finally arrived at rock bottom, Ghost tries to effect reconciliations with Jess — now turning tricks for a living — and his old band mates, but whether he’s left it too late remains intriguingly open as the end credits roll.

Although set in the world of jazz musicians, Too Late Blues is less about the workings of the music industry than about people so caught up in testing the limits of their self-delusions that they can’t see the human wreckage floating in their wake. Much of the weird fascination of Too Late Blues results from the clash between Cassavetes’ improvisatory approach to filmmaking and the studio’s efforts to channel his iconoclastic instincts in a more mainstream direction. Having already made his first independent film, the experimental, rough-edged Shadows, Cassavetes wasn’t about to start recycling cinematic clichés just because Paramount was footing the bill. The emotional complexity and intensity of his film discomfited audiences and critics weaned on more predictable fare. Some couldn’t see past the movie’s at times over-the-top performances. Others felt challenged by its refusal to traffic in easy ironies or interpretations.

To its credit, Too Late Blues continually undercuts traditional expectations. It never sugarcoats its uncomfortable truths, it never tries to make us like its characters, and it never makes excuses for their weakness, narcissism and cruelty. Instead, it forces us to confront, with nonjudgmental, unsentimental candor, the creative and destructive energies within us all. That’s liberating, but it’s also scary. It perhaps explains why audiences at the time cold-shouldered Cassavetes’ corrosive vision of relationship hell in favor of less confrontational, more escapist fare like Dr. No and Lover Come Back.

Aiding and Abetting
In a 1971 Playboy interview, Cassavetes stated: “I should have made the film my way—in New York instead of California and not on an impossibly tight schedule. To do the film right, I needed six months, and I agreed to make it in 30 days—working with people who didn’t like me, didn’t trust me and didn’t care about the film.”

Yet the contributions of several key collaborators belie such assertions. Cinematographer Lionel Lindon (most famous for his brilliant work on The Manchurian Candidate) conjures gritty black and white images that viscerally capture the late-night, soul-eroding atmosphere of sleazy bars and tacky dance halls. Lindon grounds Too Late Blues in a subdued visual reality that accentuates the spiritual cul-de-sacs in which the characters exist, and that helps redeem the film’s sometimes-theatrical dialog. The veteran cinematographer also proved a fortuitous choice given Cassavetes’ frequent use of close-ups. Much of the film consists of extreme tight shots that underscore the characters’ emotional isolation, a camera approach that could easily have led to visual boredom. Yet Lindon displays a unique ability to frame and light the innumerable close-ups in consistently interesting and revealing ways. His insightful and subtle work is responsible for much of the film’s poetic resonance.

The film’s brilliant music score is courtesy of David Raksin and performed by such jazz legends as Benny Carter, Red Mitchell and Shelly Manne. Raksin’s theme tune, mimed by Ghost’s group during the opening credits, immediately establishes the film’s cool, sardonic tone, and neatly mimics the attitude with which the actors deliver their lines. Equally memorable is the moody, wordless melody that Jess scat sings at several key junctures in the film. Raksin’s haunting lament is keenly expressive of Jess’ almost childlike need for affection and affirmation.

Cassavetes also enjoyed fruitful collaborations with his actors, who seem to be channeling the kinetic energy that informed his own screen roles. Much of the critical abuse heaped on Too Late Blues was directed at its performance aesthetic, which ranges from smart-ass cool to high-strung hysterics. In scene after scene, the actors come within an inch of going over the top, yet somehow never lose their balance. While disconcerting to audiences at the time, looking back, it’s clear that Cassavetes was continuing his experiments with traditional notions of screen acting begun in his first independent feature.

Cassavetes originally wanted Montgomery Clift and Gena Rowlands for the leads, but was obliged by Paramount (happily in retrospect) to use Darin and Stevens instead. Darin, damping down his Mack the Knife hipster persona, is solid gold in first non-singing role. His pudgy, smarmy features perfectly express Ghost’s destructive narcissism. The massively ambitious singer (who famously vowed to be a legend by age 25) doubtless found many points of identification with Ghost’s relentless, anything goes pursuit of success. But Darin was also a remarkably sensitive and layered actor. His bluster often concealed a little boy lost quality, and he shrewdly used this dynamic to enhance his character’s emotional manipulation of Jess.

One could argue that Stevens was the most underrated actress of her generation, given her stunningly nuanced performance in this film. Among many fine moments, perhaps the most striking is Jess’ impromptu audition amid a gathering of seasoned jazz musicians. She manages to hold her own for a few moments, only to reveal her shortcomings when the tempo picks up. Stevens goes from tentative confidence to mounting anxiety to gut-wrenching fear with amazing fluidity. Another indelible scene occurs when Ghost discovers her in a bottom-rung dive negotiating terms with a couple of middle-aged johns. Ashamed at being caught plying this less-than-noble trade, Jess attempts suicide, at which, like everything else in her life, she proves a failure. Stevens’ emotional vulnerability in this scene looks you straight in the heart and breaks it wide open.

Matching the two high-powered stars in scenery-chewing prowess is Everett Chambers as the vituperative Benny, who effortlessly segues from servility to masochism to sadism. A failed jazz musician and Jess’ ex-lover, the pint-sized Benny overflows with bile and bitterness, and hates/envies Ghost for the latter’s musical and sexual prowess. He’s at his creepiest in the scene where he sits in Jess’ darkened bedroom like a horny hobgoblin, spying while Ghost and Jess passionately embrace. Chambers makes no attempt to mask Benny’s inner demons, playing him with a baleful glare and a mouth full of verbal razor blades. Benny is the film’s most disagreeable character, but he’s also its most honest and most morally consistent. Sadly, this was Chambers’ only film performance. (He went on to become an Emmy-nominated producer). His etched-in-acid representation of vindictiveness unchecked is simply astonishing.

The high standard extends all the way down the cast list. Seymour Cassell, Cliff Carnell, Richard Chambers and Dan Stafford provide fine ensemble support as the members of Ghost’s band; oddball character actor Nick Dennis presides over the poolroom where the group hangs out; and ruggedly handsome Vince Edwards (on the cusp of his Ben Casey stardom) does a nice turn as a sleazy bully who applies the match to Ghost’s spiritual combustion.

Say it with Venom
Too Late Blues is a dialog-heavy film, yet rarely feels long-winded, thanks to repartee that’s as sharp and scathing as a hooker’s tongue. Its characters wield words like weapons, and they’re all expert marksmen. When Ghost tries to mend fences with his band, his former drummer Shelly slings his apology back in his face in fine bitter style: “Well, it’s just a little too late to be crying the blues, now, isn’t it? I tell you what you do. You take your little pink cotton candy dreams, and you get ’em out of here! And I mean out of here!”

Benny uses language to humiliate, telling Jess after her failed audition: “I don’t think you made it, sweetie baby. It’s not enough to look pretty. I mean, let’s face it, honey. You were embarrassing. They were laughing at you.” And when Ghost berates Benny for denigrating his musicianship, Benny sets him straight: “All right, then, let’s not talk about music. Let’s talk about people. Because you’re a failure there too, man. You haven’t got a friend left in the world. You wanna know why? You’re a bum. When an idealist sells himself out, everybody passes judgment. The bigger the idealist, the bigger the bum.”

For Jess, words are a form of self-defense against the expectations that others place on her. After her failed suicide attempt, she tells Ghost, “I’m good for nothing. Nothing is the only thing I’ve ever given in my whole life. Nothing got better because I was there. Nobody ever once said thank God Jess Polanski was here.” And her rationalization for turning to prostitution is heartbreaking in its directness and simplicity. “I just do what I can do best. That’s all. And hope for tomorrow not to be there.”

Ghost uses words to build a shield of self-esteem, yet in his arrogance fails to see that his disparaging remarks about others actually form a blistering self-portrait. “You guys are nothing,” he rails at his band. “Nothing but phonies, man…. You know why? Cause you’re talking about fame all the time, and you’re talking about making it big and being something…. Well, go find your own music, man. Go write it if you can. I am tired of carrying this group, boy.” With these words, Ghost unwittingly writes his artistic and moral obituary.

Fade Out
Looking in his cinematic rearview mirror, Cassavetes said, “I think Too Late Blues was potentially a hell of a lot better picture than I made it. I’m not copping any pleas. I just didn’t know how to work under the system at that time.”

Cassavetes may have been right about his film’s shortcomings, but he was wrong to sell it so completely short. In its unpretentious, low-rent way, Too Late Blues possesses more poetry, soul and truth in its 100 minutes than any dozen “prestige pictures” put together — then or now. Perceived limits to his creative autonomy notwithstanding, studio discipline helped give Too Late Blues a cohesive narrative flow missing from many of Cassavetes’ independent features. And for all its compromises, real and imagined, it still bears the unmistakable imprint of its maker’s junkyard grit and unadulterated honesty.

We’ll leave the final word to one of the film’s co-stars, the still-radiant Stella Stevens, who considers her portrayal of Jess Polanski among her finest screen achievements. “It’s one of my favorites,” she says simply.

Availability

The Video Beat, an online retailer of rock and roll cinema, offers a nice-looking presentation of Too Late Blues on VHS and DVD-R, along with supplementary trailers and retro TV commercials.
CLICK HERE TO ORDER TOO LATE BLUES ON DVD

CLICK HERE TO READ DEAN BRIERLY'S EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH STELLA STEVENS ABOUT TOO LATE BLUES

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