Most jazz films suck. There are precious few exceptions. But why, you ask?
Well, most jazz films are unrealistic. Not because they’re bad, but because they often miss the soul of the music in favor of the myth, the melodrama, or the marketable. Here’s why:
They romanticize the suffering
The “tortured genius” trope—drug-addicted, misunderstood, chasing some unattainable sound—is so overused it’s become cliché. Yes, pain was part of some jazz stories (see: Billie, Bird, Chet), but it wasn’t the only story. The joy, the laughter, the community, the sheer brilliance? Too often left on the cutting room floor.
They ignore the music’s process
Jazz is a living, breathing conversation—but in films, it’s usually reduced to a dramatic solo under a spotlight. The real magic happens in rehearsal, on the bandstand, in the car rides, over late-night hangs. That nuance is hard to film but essential to the truth.
They flatten the complexity of jazz lives
Jazz musicians aren’t just players—they are thinkers, hustlers, family people, cultural rebels, spiritual seekers. Movies often reduce them to one dimension: either tragic addict or stoic genius. The fullness gets lost.
They overdramatize technical moments
Whiplash is a perfect example. It’s gripping cinema—but wildly exaggerated. In real jazz education, throwing chairs and screaming isn’t mentorship—it’s abuse. And “rushing or dragging” isn’t the central moral crisis of the artform.
They rarely get the music right
Actors don’t play musical instruments convincingly. A film loses its believablity when it’s obviously someone is pretending to play an instrument. Sometimes the film cuts away from solos just as they’re starting. And often the feel is off—because jazz isn’t just about notes, it’s about time, breath, vibe. That’s hard to capture if the filmmakers aren’t steeped in it.
Characters Talk Like Screenwriters, Not Musicians
Real jazz cats don’t monologue about “the purity of sound” over coffee in perfect lighting. They riff, they joke, they talk gear, gigs, rent. In films, they’re often turned into brooding philosophers or tortured savants. That disconnect breaks the spell.
Exceptions?
Some films come closer:
’Round Midnight (1986) – moody, poetic, and stars real jazz musician Dexter Gordon.
Mo’ Better Blues – stylish, flawed, but at least directed by someone (Spike Lee) who listens.
Let’s Get Lost – a documentary, not a drama, but captures the haunting, evasive charm of Chet Baker.
Bottom line:
Most jazz films don’t quite swing—they narrate, mythologize, and dramatize instead of listening, grooving, and honoring the complexity. If someone ever tells the truth of jazz on screen, it’ll have to be as improvisational, contradictory, and beautiful as the music itself.
And now, one of the all-time worst—and most strangely unforgettable—finales in jazz film history: the closing scene of A Man Called Adam (1966), a misguided classic of bad cinema starring Sammy Davis Jr. as a self-destructive trumpeter spiraling toward oblivion. The music is by Nat Adderley, and the cast is an improbable fever dream: Sammy, Peter Lawford, Frank Sinatra, Jr., Cicely Tyson, Louis Armstrong, Mel Tormé, and Kai Winding.
After two hours of Adam’s tortured unraveling—including a cringe-inducing scene in his agent’s office (Lawford) where, after vowing never to play the segregated South again, he literally crawls on the floor begging for a gig—the film stumbles toward its grand finale.
By this point, Adam is wrecked, physically, spiritually, musically. He takes the stage one last time for a searing solo—actually Nat Adderley doing the heavy lifting—but when he reaches for a crucial high note, he chokes. Tries again. Fails. Then again. No dice. Frustrated, he slams his trumpet, over and over, as if he could beat the note out of it. He collapses. Dies. Curtain.
In a final bit of melodramatic theater, his young protégé, Frank Sinatra, Jr., picks up the battered horn, unscrews the mouthpiece like it’s a relic, and Louis Armstrong, tears streaming, lets the sorrow flow. Over it all, Mel Tormé croons from the heavens:
“He was born to blow a horn… and all that jazz.”
Fade to black. A train wreck of a movie, but you can’t look away.
Drum roll…..SPECIAL BONUS VIDEO CLIP
An ending in search of a beginning. Can you identify the actor who is really playing the drums here? Hint, it’s from a British jazz-noir adaptation of Shakespeare’s Othello, set in London’s smoky underground jazz scene.
Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.
Ah, All Night Long! Just turned our mutual friend RJ Marx onto that one after it was screened on TCM. I'm not a jazz aficionado myself, so I can't judge the playing in any deep way, but I enjoyed the film. Patrick McGoohan, on those drums onscreen, was terrific and quite scary as the Iago figure.
That Sammy Davis movie sounds pretty wild. Bad cinema I certainly AM an aficionado of. Ever seen Dance Hall Racket, written by Lenny Bruce? Many would class that as bad, but to me it's fascinating and I've probably seen it ten times by now...😅 It creates its own world.
Agreed, the Gig is a very decent film. Another understated and very enjoyable movie is American Blue Note. My long time favourite, though, is Sven Klang's Kvintett, a brilliant (albeit monochrome) treatment of the changing dynamics within a settled, amateur, band when a brilliant, but flawed, musician joins them.