Washington, início do século XX. Garoto judeu prefere cantar a seguir os estudos religiosos, conforme desejo de seu pai. Torna-se artista do vaudeville, encanta-se com o jazz, junta-se a uma companhia de blackface, casa-se com uma não judia, atinge o estrelato, deixa crescer o ego, estraga a vida... mas não abandona o show biz.
I can’t say I knew much about Al Jolson aside from his “Mammy”, and I’m not sure I really know that much more now. Larry Parks does, however, deliver quite engagingly as the young Jewish lad who was spotted by “Steve” (William Demarest) and in spite of strong objection from his father (Ludwig Donath) takes to the boards. He is a talented lad, no doubt about that, and so is quickly offered bigger and better parts that challenge his loyalties and priorities whilst offering him all the trappings of stardom. When he encounters aspiring Ziegfeld gal “Julie” (Evelyn Keyes), she brings an whole new dimension to their lives as she hopes to enjoy success in a slightly different fashion that will mean retirement to a new house in the country. The question for Jolson, though, is whether he can be satisfied with this more sedentary existence or whether the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd will prove too much for him to resist. It’s all perfectly watchable fayre in the vein of so many of these 1940s biopics that selectively and creatively re-write history but with a solid musical score underpinning a story of it’s time, it is still watchable enough as an illustration of just what did entertain folks desperate for diversion after years of WWII austerity. It’s also quite interesting that much is made of the “Blackface” characterisation here and yet so many of his own contemporary African Americans acknowledge that this very activity, considered racist nowadays, actually served to help acclimatise a considerable number of the not so tolerant American citizenry to the idea that black people were every bit as equal and talented as their fairer skinned compatriots. Moreover, many are ready to certify that Jolson didn’t have a racist bone in his body. Could this be an early conduit for more enlightened thinking?
