New Jersey-bred rocker Bruce Springsteen (Jeremy Allen White) is all set for stardom in the '80s until inner demons force him to lay low and record Nebraska, a grim, atmospheric album that connects him to his blue-collar roots, childhood trauma, and crippling existentialism.
Jeremy Allen White nails the Boss's voice and swagger. Opening the film with a sweat-drenched, bright-lit rendition of Springsteen's stadium-selling anthem "Born to Run", The Bear star proves he's the right man for the job. But this merriment is short-lived as the rest of the film is fixated with the artist's downtime, his introspection away from an America that loves him, and his quasi-spiritual return to a bleak working-class Americana he was running away from. White's Springsteen might distract you with dark-iris contacts, wrinkly, well-fitted leather jackets, and, of course, the cuffed white shirts; this is more than just mere impersonation. Like the Boss, White means business. Well-versed in playing depressed men with pent-up trauma (The Bear, The Iron Claw), White nails not just Springsteen's trademark gravely singing voice, but also his tender mannerisms like half-smiles and brooding stares.
Humanizes its tragic troubadour with some moving depictions of sadness (alas, with blurry origins and all-too-cheery supporting characters). The biopic shines the most when Springsteen's unconventional recording process and its accompanying breakouts are handled with sensitive silences and no verbose exposition. It'll always be fascinating to see how a rockstar at the cusp of blowing up decided to retreat to his New Jersey bedroom and record melancholic ballads on hapless, working-class Americans on nothing but a guitar, a harmonica, and a 4-track cassette recorder. Barring a few moody bits of him cutting the noise and finding himself, White shines the most when he's all alone, aimlessly pushing the speed limit on an empty road or just lying back and listening to a moody, screeching record like "Frankie Teardrop" by Suicide. These are moments that stick Springsteen's feet to the ground, humanising rather than venerating him as the stuff of legends.
Sadly, nothing else in the film adds to this humanity, with the ensemble dotted with walking-talking cliches. There's the cheery cheerleader of a manager (a miscast Jeremy Strong as Jon Landau), a sidelined but supportive girlfriend (Odessa Young serving as a composite character for perhaps all of Springsteen's flings at the time), and a morose, semi-abusive drunk of a dad (Adolescence's Stephen Graham underused in mellow but unimaginative black-and-white childhood flashbacks). It's not that everyone worships the Boss. Some tense recording sessions and label meetings make his ever-loyal manager and the E Street Band also question his creative and commercial right turn with Nebraska. But these logistical challenges are conveniently resolved after a splat or two, and everyone around the Boss returns to their "hypeman" duties. Blame it on 20th Century Studios' marketability or director Scott Cooper's sensitivity in not delving too deeply into the Boss's depression, but Springsteen: Deliver Me from Nowhere is a sugary story, occasionally peppered with occasional moments of gloom. It's not that the film needs to be a tragic, morose journey with no redemption; it's just that it transitions from hopelessness to hope, which falls flat when it's this Hollywood-ized. More so when the album it borrows its sound from is anything but conventional. The film is bound to polarize, but one thing's for sure, our moody winters are bound to be soundtracked to Nebraska tearjerkers like "Atlantic City" this year.
Earnest Springsteen biopic taps into some dark themes
but ultimately delivers an all-too-familiar joyride.
