Quincy is an engaging introduction to Quincy Jones, with archive material that makes the history feel close. Alan Hicks and Rashida Jones are less persuasive when admiration needs to give way to a difficult question.
For those interested in its subject, Quincy is worth the time, provided we do not expect a searching account of the man or his music. Directors Alan Hicks and Rashida Jones assemble music history, personal recollections and tributes with obvious affection. Quincy Jones has the presence to hold our attention through much of its 124 minutes. The difficulty is that the film seems so pleased to have him there that it seldom risks making him uncomfortable.
The archival material gives the film much of its interest. Familiar career milestones become worth revisiting because the footage lets us look at the people involved, rather than simply accept another account of how important they were. There is pleasure in watching a musical life accumulate through these fragments, even when the route through it is conventional. The footage deserves the attention, without quite so much accompanying reassurance about the stature of the man at its centre.
Rashida Jones’s affection helps make the personal material approachable. The film has access to Quincy Jones’s inner circle, and there is a relaxed warmth to the encounters that a more formal survey might struggle to achieve. But closeness also seems to make it reluctant to interrupt an admiring account or examine a flaw for long. The people around him are often enjoyable company, even when their contributions tell us little we could not already gather.
Rory Marx Anderson’s cinematography is unobtrusive enough to keep attention on the people being filmed. That is a sensible choice when the central figure can hold the screen without much help. It also leaves the archive carrying much of the visual interest, while the surrounding footage settles into a comfortable familiarity. A more elaborate camera style would not necessarily improve matters: we wanted the directors to stay with something awkward for longer.
Editors Andrew McAllister and Will Znidaric have plenty of material to organise, and the film remains accessible as it moves through a crowded career. Its rhythm is less dependable. Episodes can feel collected rather than developed, with the next achievement arriving before the previous one has told us much about the person responsible. At 124 minutes, there is time for a fuller examination, but too much of it goes to confirming an impression already established.
We were moved when Quincy Jones reflects on mortality. The prospect of losing this engaging presence gives the film a seriousness that praise alone cannot produce. These passages also show what the gentler approach can achieve when it allows unease to remain. The frustration is that such candour does not receive the same attention as the achievements.
Music documentaries can be generous without treating every achievement as a reason to stop asking questions. Quincy has enough history and personable company to reward an existing interest, but it stops short of making a celebrated subject newly understandable. We do not need a hostile interview, or a catalogue of faults, to feel that someone has been examined properly. See it if the music already matters to you; expect the questions to remain polite.