Dreamgirls

Occupying the same quasi-fictionalised pop history universe as the criminally underrated Grace Of My Heart, Dreamgirls is the story of Diana Ross and The Supremes with some important fantastical differences. Here Ross is not a drunken diva-harridan who can’t take penalties, but an angelic naif essayed with plenty of blank perkiness by Beyoncé Knowles. Berry Gordy (Foxx) is an entirely well-meaning star-maker who ultimately learns to say he’s sorry. Most significantly, the Golden Globe winning film might well be subtitled “Florence Ballard Will Have Her Revenge On Detroit”. Well, not revenge exactly, Bill Condon’s musical is much too sweet for that, but Florence ersatz is played by American Idol winner Jennifer Hudson in a heart-stopping, arse-kicking, floor-wiping performance that pays glorious tribute to the late chanteuse. (Think Mabel King in The Wiz and you’re there.) Only Eddie Murphy’s superb amalgamation of Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Marvin Gaye, delivered with all the energy and comedy of his early stand-up shows, looks more than meek beside Ms. Hudson in full-flight.
Condon, the director of Kinsey and Gods And Monsters, knows how to lay on the razzmatazz and as a film Dreamgirls leaves the likes of Moulin Rouge or Chicago or Rent in the dust where they belong. But still, Dreamgirls is not nearly as dreamy as it ought to be. The plot is toothless and the songs plain suck.
A Motown musical with no soul? Eek.
131mins. Vert 15a. Opens January 26.