My assessment of The Color Purple in all of its sundry adaptations always has been first processed through the narrative structure of Alice Walker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book. I don’t say that to sound pretentious. The novel is structured as a series of letters to God, first by Celie and then by her sister Nettie. As such, the narrative takes on a fragmented, dreamlike, haunting, episodic quality. The story beats all come in the form of firsthand accounts that we the reader interpret cumulatively to understand the hopes and horrors of the central characters’ lives. Imagine if the Brothers Grimm had been steeped in the American miasma of misogyny and racism and told Cinderella in reverse. (I know Cinderella was written by Charles Perrault. Just roll with me here.)

I’ll be forever grateful that Professor Warren Rosenberg at my small all-male college in rural Indiana (Wabash College) made this novel required reading, along with Toni Morrison’s equally gut-punching The Bluest Eye. We then were all tasked to watch Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of The Color Purple as well. (Because I had a beautifully progressive mom we’d seen it in the theatre in 1985 when it first came out, but I gladly watched it again.) Professor Rosenberg’s assignment was for us to assess how the author’s intent shifted through the cinematic gaze and identify what was lost and what was found. I suspect that assignment is in great part why I continue to blog about movies three decades after that early 90s coursework.

But here I’ve done what so many well-meaning folks (men) do and I’ve fallen into the trap Spielberg did of making the narrative about myself. It ain’t.

That said, going back to the structure of the original novel, the reason Spielberg’s adaptation doesn’t quite work – stellar cast and production that it had – is because he couldn’t un-Spielberg himself. Spielberg was still stuck in “EVENT MOVIE” mode. The delicate, nightmarish nuance of Celie’s letters – unanswered confessions, prayers, and pleas – were lost in the sweep of an Oscar-bait film. Nonetheless, in great part without Spielberg and producer Quincy Jones, the original film might not have ever seen the light of day, given Hollywood’s general populist tendencies (stated politics aside). Regardless its flaws, the film served a crucial purpose in establishing Walker’s narrative in the public consciousness for all time. Of course, career best performances by Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey are really what lasted in the mind’s eye. And the irony that I first offered credit to two men – Spielberg and Jones – given the work’s core message of women reclaiming their agency against all odds is not lost on me.

So, this self-indulgent “look what I know” preamble aside, what does all this mean for Blitz Bazawule’s musical remake of The Color Purple? In my humble opinion, the film is the perfect distillation of the central thesis in Walker’s work – that strength comes from within and through sisterhood and that the socioeconomic deck has long been stacked against African-American women in every way possible. And, at least for me, the musical form is the best cinematic framework for the epistolary structure of Walker’s novel. Each song is staged like an unanswered prayer, a moment in time (joyous, tragic, introspective) where the characters reveal their truest perspective on the nightmarish forces at work in their lives. Bazawule, who brought a similar sensibility to Beyoncé’s Black is King, embraces the heightened theatricality of the film musical, juxtaposing hardscrabble existence and tuneful escape beautifully. (At times, I thought of Lars Von Trier’s heartbreaking Dancer in the Dark. Bjork’s character in that film endures her own series of tragedies and finds solace in music, sometimes inspired by the industrial noise around her.)

That is not to say this new adaptation is without flaws. The first act – young Celie and Nettie before they are horrifically separated – just doesn’t connect the way it should. This is a shame because it is this bond that should set the stage for all that is to come, how Celie has lost half her heart, and how important it is when her life comes full circle. The opening scenes between Halley Bailey (Nettie) and Phylicia Pearl Mpasi (Celie) are lovely, lilting even, with a dynamite new ditty in “Keep It Movin’.” However, the early scenes all feel formulaic. The stakes are not raised high enough when Celie is forced by her father to marry Mister, nor when Mister forces Nettie from his home, declaring the sisters shall never see each other again. (That’s one scene that Spielberg DOES nail, if I recall, because his biggest gift is in capturing childhood terror and innocence lost.)

Fortunately, once the adult ensemble enters the picture, the sheer force of their talent and their dynamic rights the ship. Fantasia Barrino is remarkable as Celie. This is not an easy role – Celie has learned to survive by shrinking, hiding her dreams, her hopes, her anger, and her disappointment in a God (and a family) that seemingly abandoned her. Maybe Job is a better analogue than Cinderella! Yet all the pain must remain bubbling under the surface, just beyond view. Celie is a character whose agency has been utterly stripped away, yet she still must be a compelling protagonist, not relying on audience sympathy alone. It’s not a “showy” part in that way. YET, it’s a musical. And Fantasia has a VOICE. What she builds throughout the film is indelible.

She’s aided and abetted by Danielle Brooks as Sofia and Taraji P. Henson as Shug Avery. Both characters are pivotal influences on Celie’s awakening and are such larger than life personalities that they run the risk of driving her nearly off the screen. That doesn’t happen here. Both Brooks and Henson bring love AND fireworks to their portrayals. If I were to continue my belabored Cinderella-in-reverse metaphor, consider them the antitheses of the Evil Stepsisters. Brooks lights the screen on fire with her showstopper “Hell No,” and Henson picks up that baton nicely for its musical complement “Push Da Button.” Both women (and songs) anthemically reclaim power for women in the film. Sofia has tragedy ahead while Shug does not, but by the final act the three women are arm-in-arm, celebrating the power of unity. Their number “Miss Celie’s Pants” is such a barn-burner that it nearly eclipses Celie’s 11 o’clock number “I’m Here” (but not quite). Taken together, the music fuels the film and propels this trio to empowerment through reclamation (and we gladly go along with them).

I also should highlight Colman Domingo’s performance as the villainous Mister and Corey Hawkins’ as his conflicted son Harpo. Either character could devolve into being a melodramatic foil to the plot. Both actors avoid this deftly. Don’t get me wrong, Mister’s treatment of Celie is as vile as the day is long, but as Celie finds her footing and ascends, Mister’s world crumbles. Domingo does a lovely job finding the notes of burgeoning self-awareness without ever becoming maudlin. Similarly, Hawkins does not play Harpo for crowd-pleasing comic relief. Rather, we see Harpo studying his father’s ways, ultimately rejecting them, and finding his own place in this world. If The Color Purple carries a feminist message (and I would argue that it does) then it’s crucial that the men in this world find enlightenment as well, and in this adaptation they do.

When we first meet Brooks’ Sofia, she’s proudly stepping into a bar to confront her future father-in-law. The patrons point out a sign on the wall that reads, among other things, that women are not allowed in the establishment. She deadpans in reply, “I read what pleases me.” And if there’s a message I took from this latest Color Purple it is that. Don’t let the naysayers derail you – and, oh, how they will try and seemingly succeed – but there is power in the collective. And that unanswered prayers are answered here on earth by those who truly care about us. Read what pleases YOU!