Don Cheadle is Miles
Good grief. You go away for three days and all hell breaks loose. Winslet bolts from Mendes. Peter Graves dies. Jack Kirby’s relatives try to set up a rival Spider-Man franchise. And it transpires that Don Cheadle is set to …
Good grief. You go away for three days and all hell breaks loose. Winslet bolts from Mendes. Peter Graves dies. Jack Kirby’s relatives try to set up a rival Spider-Man franchise. And it transpires that Don Cheadle is set to play Miles Davis in an upcoming biopic.
Farewell then Peter Graves. Sadly, your surname is now tragically appropriate.
Cheadle doesn’t look much like Miles and he has, perhaps, rather too amiable a persona for the famously horrible trumpeter (he’s dead, so he can’t sue). But I still reckon he’ll do a pretty good job. Taking in the history of jazz from the origins of bebop to the birth of fusion, Miles’s story has the makings of a very decent picture. As long as they don’t get Brett Ratner to direct we might be okay.
Such thoughts set one pondering about unmade biopics. The genre is, of course, very often an excuse for deadeningly dull hagiography. But a few complex characters do cry out for the treatment. Where’s the Aleister Crowley film? Where’s my Thelonious Monk picture? More interesting still, what about an Ezra Pound film? Think about it. The eccentric old versifier went barmy and they brought him back to America in a cage. IN A CAGE! Just imagine how much fun such restrained actors as Sean Penn or Ed Harris would have with that. “Munch, munch, munch! Me love scenery. Munch, munch, munch!” Yeah, I suppose all that fascism stuff was a bit of a problem. But what a yarn!
Munch, munch, munch…