For most adults under the age of forty, “I’m Rick James, bitch” was a statement of intent. The artefactual pop-culture catchphrase stems from The Chappelle Show sketch “Charlie Murphy’s True Hollywood Stories,” which catapulted the “Super Freak” hitmaker back into public consciousness. The segment didn’t simply pitch the singer-songwriter-producer as an easy, unfortunate punchline. It added to his mythos: People wanted to know about the coke-fueled parties, the abundant orgies, and the other major celebrities James crossed paths with.
Director Sacha Jenkins (“Wu-Tang Clan: Of Mics and Men”) scratches the itch that first surfaced in 2004 when the Chappelle Show sketch premiered. Jenkins’ 102-minute Showtime documentary “Bitchin’: The Sound and Fury of Rick James” recounts the singer’s wild life in startling detail from the people who knew him best. It’s a provocative picture of rock star excess, towering success, and Icarian loss told in less than satisfactory terms.
“Bitchin’” opens on tantalizing ground: Ty James, the singer’s daughter, visits a storage company holding wooden crates filled with her late father’s possessions. The crates haven’t been opened for twelve years. She sifts through a picture of OJ Simpson with Rick James (the singer, in her words, believes he did it), an old gilded bench, and a Tupac poster. The initial start gives an allusion to an unearthing, a discussion of little-known memories and hidden loves and truths led by his daughter. While some uncovering does occur, that personal touch is left wanting.
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Jenkins traces James’ unlikely rise to stardom from his humble beginnings in Buffalo, New York, running money for his mother’s numbers racket, to his lofty success. We learn of his early drug use, the presence of physical abuse in his childhood household, and a woman neighbor sexually preying on the 13-year old boy (the psychological effects of this awful transgression, however, are not deeply analyzed). If you’re not a James expert, you’ll be surprised by the early course of his career: the path he took toward Toronto, Canada, his early association with Neil Young and other folk artists, and his inchoate days at Motown Records as a songwriter. The details weave a picture of a fame-hungry artist blessed with incredible talent and fortitude frustrated by his nearly non-existent ascent.
What sets “Bitchin’” apart from other music documentaries is its willingness to quite literally take apart James’ songs. Jenkins employs VP of A&R and Production Development Harry Weinger to sort through the multi-tracks of the singer’s most seminal songs. We listen to an early track like Take 21 of “It’s My Time,” for instance. Wienger also guides viewers through hits like “You and I,” the hypnotic synth on “Super Freak,” and an unheard James-sung demo of the Mary Jane Girls’ smash single “In My House.” These are entrancing rarities that demonstrate his intense creative process and his circuitous journey as an artist, tracing how he grew from an intrepid folk artist to the braided glam punk-funk superstar who would later influence Prince and MC Hammer.
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Just as telling as James’ rise, however, is his swift fall. Whatever tales of rock n roll hedonism you’ve heard before, you’ve not heard it at the scale of James. Sex, drugs, more sex, more drugs, dark and abusive sexual abuse, and cocaine took root at his parties. In the best of terms, the unapologetic singer was provocative. Under the worst, most truthful circumstances, he’s described as a voyeuristic sexual sadist. Of the talking heads, critic and scholar Jason King provides clear-eyed and invaluable cultural commentary on the singer. Interviews with James’ Stone City Bandmembers also give bits of personal insight into him, too.
Often Jenkins relies on cheap 3D animation to reenact James’ life: from his massive orgies to the story of the singer clearing the desk of Jay Lasker, Motown Records’ President, and snorting coke in front of him (as bad as it sounds, I did laugh out loud at the outrageous recounting). The film is also light on James’ darker side with regards to his violence against women. Jenkins allows the singer’s words along with his ex-wife Tanya Hijazi’s recounting to direct the charges of kidnapping and sexual assault that were levied against him in 1991. The incident is brushed aside fairly quickly.
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Following the music component of James’ life, “Bitchin’” slows to a formalized talking heads structure. The later-career analysis from the talking heads: Who James became once the flashing lights left feels a tad reedy. And the build leading to his death, a bit rushed. As though the impending doom was too apparent to fully articulate. Why not return to the initial tease of Ty sorting through his stuff? Considering how often the participants noted the extravagance of his lifestyle, seeing either outlandish objects or unique items that could elucidate fresh stories might have given the latter portion a less generic rhythm.
Even with these shortcomings in mind, Jenkins’ “Bitchin’: The Sound and Fury of Rick James” offers a fascinating recounting of a charismatic, immensely talented legend who lived a million lifetimes in the span of his brief yet meteoric career. [C+]
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