Cinema: Memory Lanes

THE BUDDY HOLLY STORY Directed by Steve Rash Screenplay by Robert Gittler

If Hollywood keeps going at its present rate, rock stars may soon become the most ubiquitous movie folk heroes since cowboys had their heyday. Already this year we have seen films about the rise of ’50s Deejay Alan Freed (American Hot Wax), the advent of the Beatles (/ Wanna Hold Your Hand) and the swan song of The Band (The Last Waltz). Now comes The Buddy Holly Story, a biopic about the pioneer rocker who died in a plane crash at age 22 in 1959. In many ways this film resembles the rest of the crop: it is rousing, if imperfect entertainment that treats its hero as a full-fledged saint. But in box office terms, The Buddy

Holly Story could be the breakthrough movie of its burgeoning genre. This is the first rock film that calculatedly aims to please middle-aged viewers as well as kids.

Its loud, hard-driving music notwithstanding, The Buddy Holly Story is at heart a very old-fashioned film. As Robert Gittler’s fictionalized script follows Holly’s rise from obscurity in Lubbock. Texas, to national superstardom, it embraces all the romantic clichés of showbiz success sagas. Holly (Gary Busey) leaves behind his suffocating small-town girlfriend (Amy Johnston) to seek the bright lights of New York; he overcomes early rejection to become the toast of the record industry; he outgrows his original back-up musicians (Don Stroud. Charlie Martin Smith) and creates a revolutionary new sound. By the time Holly meets his tragic end (leaving behind a nation of fans and a pregnant wife), the film could well be a remake of Night and Day or The Glenn Miller Story. Gittler has even more nostalgic affection for the gloss of “40s movies than he does for the beat of ’50s music.

What prevents The Buddy Holly Story’s sentimentality from becoming obnoxious is the conviction with which the movie has been made. Except for a chaotic and enervating final 20 minutes, this film runs on its naive energy. Director Steve Rash milks every corny moment without being brazenly manipulative, and he bathes every shot in oldtime Technicolor glamour. His best scenes actually cut to the meaning of Holly’s career.

There is a superb opening sequence, set in a desolate Texas roller rink, where Holly suddenly segues from a tame Les Paul-Mary Ford hillbilly song into a hard bopping number. As the music brings the singer and his audience to life, we begin to see how rock unleashed the nation’s sexuality. Later on, the film captures the rigors of the road, the vicissitudes of the fledgling rock industry and, best of all, Holly’s role in bridging the gap between the white and black music of his day.

When the hero leads an infectious jam session at Harlem’s Apollo Theater, the walls of cultural segregation almost tangibly tumble down.

Gary Busey, himself a part-time rock musician with Leon Russell’s band, delivers Holly’s hits adequately; his That’ll Be the Day palls only when compared point-blank with the original. As an actor. Busey comes into his own this time around, after a career of character roles in little-seen films (Straight Time, The Last American Hero). Whether he is playing Holly as a hick in the big city or a lovesick husband or a teen-age idol, Busey always seems convincing. He brings a swagger to the musical numbers and an engaging buck-toothed charm to the script’s dramatic moments. Maybe the real Holly was someone else entirely, but Busey is certainly the right man for this paradoxical film. He is at once sexy enough to turn on the young and sweet enough to bring home to Mother.