The Color Purple

Dearly beloved, was it really a quarter-century ago that a long-haired androgyne genius invited “u” to take him higher? For anyone in 1984 between the ages of jailbait and 35, Purple Rain—not just the movie, but the like-titled album and concert tour—was a groove that rocked mighty hard. In these parts, we were proud of our little Prince, whose Citizen Kane of Minnesota movies, released in the middle of summer, immediately seemed something more than fiction. Yes, Prince was nominally playing The Kid, but this was still the story of Prince—a colossally talented, control-freakin’ producer-arranger-composer-performer (as he immodestly billed himself on astounding LPs such as 1999, released in 1982). En route to superstardom, this multihyphenate loner deigned to show the world that he wished to include others in his Revolution—not just other musicians, but all of us.

Rock-film history regards Purple Rain as the movie that bridges the considerable gap between Elvis’s Jailhouse Rock and Eminem’s 8 Mile. All three are lurid tales of narcissistic, misogynistic musicians who reluctantly learn to love. In terms of style, Prince’s primer for mainstream America (along with Flashdance and Footloose just before it) is significant for having imported MTV editing to cinema. Indeed, Purple Rain director Albert Magnoli simply dragged his plot-summarizing video for the fastest-selling single in a decade, “When Doves Cry,” into the middle of the movie—or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, it signaled the arrival of something fresh and new, even if Prince’s squealing guitar solo at the orgasmic climax of “Let’s Go Crazy” did sound distinctly Hendrixian.

Since Purple Rain, of course, Prince has become an indelible part of the cultural landscape. Unlike most artists of the 1980s, he has continued to evolve and adapt, and may now be enjoying a creative renaissance—or at least a commercial rebirth—as one of rock and roll’s senior statesmen. This outcome didn’t seem likely 25 years ago, but it hardly mattered, because somewhere between 1999 and 1984, Warner Bros. decided to throw $7 million at the task of turning Prince into The King of his pop moment.

How tough could it be? The model was clear. Back in 1957, anyone still fearful of Elvis and his pelvis took comfort in Jailhouse Rock, the plot of which had the rocker climactically crooning a purty ballad—“Young and Beautiful,” the “Purple Rain” of the Eisenhower era. If Warner Bros. had a slightly bigger challenge in making its sex machine safe for conservative times, it’s partly because Prince needed to be established in whitebread America not only as sweet, but straight.