Highest 2 Lowest

It's been nearly twenty years since Spike Lee and Denzel Washington last collaborated, which makes their reunion exciting before considering the merits of the project. All of Lee's films are at least interesting (yes, even his awful Oldboy remake), and Washington has a way of being the best part of anything he's in, be it a masterpiece, a flop, or a middling blockbuster. For them to take on source material of such high quality was very promising. Akira Kurosawa's High and Low, itself an adaptation of the 1959 novel King's Ransom, is a riveting classic from the master filmmaker whose central moral quandary and thematic concerns resonate to this day. Given who Lee is, it's natural that his version takes place in modern day NYC, and features racial commentary in addition to the original's class divide and resentment of wealth.

What's less expected is the role ambition plays in this reimagining. David King's (Washington) precarious financial position is not thrust upon him; it's the result of maneuvering to change course and prevent the sale of Stackin' Hits Records, the label he founded over a quarter century ago. While he's trying to keep it out of the hands of corporate vultures who will surely destroy the cornerstone of black culture he's developed, hubris underlies his good intentions. So when his son Trey (Aubrey Joseph) is kidnapped and ransomed for $17.5 million, we feel for him as a father, but care less about how it spells certain financial ruin. Who amongst the audience will ever have access to such a princely sum, never mind need to contemplate what it would meant to lose it? Additionally, neither King nor his wife Pam (Ilfenesh Hadera) seem too concerned; this is their boy's life, after all! What could be more valuable? They'll figure out their finances later.

But what if it wasn't their boy? Would they be so quick to throw away their future if their close friend's son was instead being held? After a couple agonizing hours, Trey shows up, and we learn it was actually Kyle (Elijah Wright) who was taken, a case of mistaken identity due to swapped headbands. Kyle is the son of David's long-time chauffeur, Paul (Jeffrey Wright). While it's easy to say he should still pay, staring down the destruction of not only his legacy but his family's comfort is enough that we see him trying desperately to rationalize not doing so.

Yet in Lee's telling, this point bears less weight. He thoroughly sets up the various characters and their desires, as well as King's family life and the specifics of the business deal. Additionally, he spends a long while (very effectively) making you feel the absence of Trey, and relies on the audience to transfer that anguish to Kyle, which only somewhat works. Nor is the focus on King's struggle with the decision and surprising everyone with what and how he decides. Rather, he engages in a series of conversations where (just about) everyone expresses their disappointment that he's even considering saving his own skin. As such, it comes across less that he's a morally complicated person, and more that he's susceptible to being shamed by those he cares about. Not to mention the public perception of his company once his actions inevitably leak.

While the well crafted characters and lively performances from every single cast member will keep you engaged and chuckling, most of their stories don't lead anywhere. Paul is on parole, which leads to side-eye from all the cops, especially the one white guy on the case, injecting an explicit element of race into the story. But none of those contentious interactions nor his past ever matter to the rest of the plot. Neither do Trey or Kyle's ambitions to play for LIU's basketball team, nor Trey's insistence that his father give singer Sula C. Sing (Aiyana-Lee) a chance.

What does matter is that the actions of the kidnapper (played by A$AP Rocky) are driven by a personal vendetta against his former hero, and further justified by his assertion that King doesn't really have the best interests of his community at heart, instead choosing to stand far above them in his tower. Their divide is highlighted in the movie's standout scene, as their initial meeting flows into a perfectly calibrated and pointed conversation which gives way to an even sharper rap battle, all playing out through the recording studio glass. It's electric, it's fresh, and it plays to the strengths of both, especially Washington.

Which makes Lee's insistence on including a few action set-pieces an odd fit. The first, a chase scene through a Puerto Rican heritage celebration, is reasonably dynamic and somewhat thrilling, but is primarily an excuse to drop the Eddie Palmieri Salsa Orchestra into the already phenomenal score. The other main one finds us on the subway for the second time, and starts as a fairly thrilling foot chase before resolving with punches. Neither leave a huge impression, nor tie into the themes. If anything, they're memorable for how out of place they feel. Injecting proper action into a famously dialog-centric story is a slightly awkward choice. But while Lee has repeatedly proven he can pull off action scenes, his most successful ones have always been the most unorthodox: the riot in Do the Right Thing, the hapless, comedic violence in Da 5 Bloods, etc. As such, going the traditional action route was not terribly effective.

Making space for such bombastic and fun yet shallow fare makes for little time to sit with the core of the story. There are a few threads and themes given additional attention, but just enough to ensure you notice their lack of development. The drawn out denouement has the same effect; it doesn't add much to the story, although it is fun and stylized.

Despite the uneven narrative, the experience of watching is elevated by a few loud and gutsy artistic decisions. For one, Lee employs cinematographer Matthew Libatique for the first time since 2015's Chi-Raq, and he shoots the hell out of the film. You can feel Lee's love of the city through Libatique's lens, and he does a wonderful job keeping the drama dynamic, telling mini-stories through lighting and shot composition.

More surprisingly is Howard Drossin's huge, orchestral score, easily amongst the best of the year. It's reminiscent of Terence Blanchard's score for Inside Man, but with more of a focus on piano and sweeping compositions and gentle strings and soft woodwinds. Nary a synthesizer in sight, it evokes Hollywood of twenty or thirty years ago, triggering our nostalgia. As unexpected as it may be, it fits the character, as King's actions are all about returning Stackin' Hits (and thus himself) to its former glory. He includes a few excellent needle drops, too. But the star of the show easily his collaboration with Scottish composer Fergus McCreadie on a new version of Stony Gate that thoroughly captures the tone of the entire movie in a propulsive five minute track, its repetition and flourishes continuing to build layer upon layer until it's an undeniable, unstoppable wave with just a hint of darkness and discord.

By the end, you have the feeling that Lee sees himself in David King, an underdog taking on the Goliath that is the media landscape. After big hits in the 90s and 00s, his cultural footprint dwindled for a while before his recent resurgence. The whole time, he remained ceaselessly dedicated to presenting and elevating black culture, and retains to this day the outstanding sensibility that landed him at the top of the game. He's not through, just slowly emerging from a creative wilderness after fighting to retain control of his vision on film after film. His career and ambitions don't align neatly with King's of course, but that's just because Lee is a storyteller first and foremost. Intentionally or not, for a filmmaker who's been working for forty years, this story cannot help but speak to his own view of his legacy, and the direction he hopes to take it. Combined with its stark deviation from the original film, its resolution is an assertion that he's the same Spike Lee he's always been, and a declaration that he'll be around and important for years to come.