Jazz on Film: Young Man with a Horn

Michael Curtiz's Young Man with a Horn (1950) was the very first major Hollywood movie to portray a self-destructive musical genius. Biopics of rock casualties have been done to, ahem, death ever since. Fittingly, the cult 1920s trumpeter Bix Beiderbecke, on whom this film is very loosely based, was also arguably the first tragic mythical figure in jazz. Yet Hollywood seems to have an aversion to telling it like it is as far as portraying the life of jazz legends go and Young Man with a Horn is no exception. From one of the first jazz biopics, The Fabulous Dorseys (1949), through to one of the more credible features by a jazz-loving director, Clint Eastwood's Bird (1988), you'll find film-makers playing fast and loose with the weight of historical evidence. Although originally inspired by the Beiderbecke biography of the same name, written by author Dorothy Baker in 1938, according to US jazz author and scholar Scott Yanow, Young Man with a Horn has absolutely zilch to do with Beiderbecke's life. An alcoholic, and bathtub gin victim of the 1920s version of the "none in a bar" rule, Beiderbecke finally succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, aged 28. But that's the type of trashy ending that doesn't make for ringing box office tills. Hollywood loves its redemptive, upbeat endings. When we do get a tragic finale, as in Bird, or even the more sentimental Glenn Miller Story (1953), Hollywood is very keen to remind us how the music lives on, providing a kind of immortal salvation.

Yet, in spite of their good intentions, the scholarly jazz fan can sometimes seem overly concerned with biographical authenticity at the expense of whether or not a film is any good or not. Young Man with a Horn certainly is that. Even though it contains a somewhat arbitrarily selective use of biographical material, this hasn't got in the way of what is a fine all-round melodrama. To his credit, Curtiz's film steers clear of the out-and-out sappy feel of other Hollywood biopics during this period, such as The Benny Goodman Story (1955). Curtiz (best known for directing Casablanca) is a classic film noir director and, with the help of a top cast, instils the film with an ominously melodramatic edge.

The playing of fictional trumpeter Rick Martin (portrayed pretty convincingly by Kirk Douglas) is dubbed by one of the most popular entertainers of the film's era, the big-band leader/trumpeter Harry James. James' flamboyant wide-vibrato style is a curious choice in so far as being a complete contrast to Beiderbecke's legendary bell-like tone and delicate, vulnerable lyricism, sometimes attributed as a precursor to Miles Davis. But in the light of James' huge popularity at the time it makes perfect financial sense that he got in ahead of, say, Chet Baker, someone more in the Beiderbecke mould, not only in terms of sound. This alone demonstrates how relaxed the film-makers were about making an authentic biography. Nods to the Beiderbecke legend are casual at most: the brawls with bandleaders, the move from Chicago to New York, the trumpet in a paper bag, only really touching on the biography with the alcoholism later in life (caused by a marriage breakdown in the film, but possibly in reality the trumpeter's insecurities concerning "technical inadequacy and lack of vision" according to British trumpeter/author Ian Carr).

On the other hand, the narrative arguably says something about the jazz life. Martin's artistic obscurity, his devotion to his improvisational art and resulting hostility towards the commercial orchestral bands with which he is forced to play, lies at the very heart of the film.

The story begins with Martin as a child secretly visiting the late-night jams of his mentor, black trumpeter Art Hazzard (Juano Hernandez). Martin takes lessons from Hazzard and his obsession with jazz playing and dreaming of reaching that high note on the trumpet begins. But he is forced into finding work with the white dance orchestras to make ends meet. Along the way Martin's instinct for playing "hot" solos lands him in trouble with bandleaders. The society orchestras leaders' latent racism and hostility to jazz is not overlooked in the film: when a bandleader advises him to stop hanging out in a seedy after-hours joint frequented by mainly black musicians, Martin rebels even more. Later on, he comes up with a killer riposte to an intolerant dance band leader: "If that tin ear of yours could really hear the kind of music Art Hazzard plays you'd go and shoot yourself."

There's no shortage of jazz on-screen, and though it doesn't come close to capturing the magic of the classic Beiderbecke-Trumbauer sides, there's nothing superfluous to the film's narrative here. The New Orleans-derived jazz in the speakeasies, the populist society dance orchestras and the jazz vocals are contrasted well throughout. The standards and early jazz classics include the main theme, a Heindorf/Cahn composition, 'Melancholy Rhapsody' that provides the main theme for the score. The pianist/songwriter Hoagy Carmichael narrates and plays Martin's best friend, Smoke, in real life a friend and former musical associate of Beiderbecke's. For whatever reason, Carmichael's parts are dubbed by pianists Buddy Cole and Stan Wrightsman. Doris Day plays the jazz vocalist Jo Jordan, a transitional part for Day in which she was switching from a big band jazz singer into the quintessential wholesome Hollywood role model of the 1950s. Being close to the bone, one suspects this is why she came into her own playing this particular role as a levelheaded young torch singer. Day turns in some excellently poised vocal performances, too, especially on versions of 'The Very Thought of You' and 'Too Marvelous For Words' dragging her phrasing sensuously across the bar lines.

When Day's character introduces the trumpeter to her friend Amy North, played by the archetypal femme fatale Lauren Bacall, Martin is distracted for the first time from his music. The trumpeter becomes hopelessly infatuated as their relationship becomes increasingly temperamental. Martin's marriage eventually crumbles and he begins a desperate slide into alcoholism. But instead of killing off the trumpeter, the film concludes with a feel-good parable, narrated by Carmichael, about the importance of hitting the high note, as a human-being and also as an artist. A tad on the cringey side perhaps? Still, there are enough cinematic high notes here: you'll just have to go elsewhere for the real Beiderbecke story.

This article originally appeared in the February 2006 issue of Jazzwise. Never miss an issue – subscribe today!