In Power Ballad, a Stolen Song Unravels Two Musicians

It is never so simple, though, with Carney. Danny is isolated and under pressure; he isn’t a good guy, but he wishes he was. He does not lift the song unaltered, and, in some ways, he even makes it better or, at least, his own. It is the nature of fame, not malice, that backs Danny into a corner, forcing him to claim sole authorship. At the pointed prodding of his manager, impeccably inhabited by Carney regular Jack Reydon, Danny fumbles each opportunity to right his great wrong. Sure, it would have changed Rick’s life to have gotten the credit for “How to Write a Song,” but it would have changed Danny’s life if he hadn’t taken it for himself.

Were circumstances different—the pressures on Danny less intense, Rick’s and Danny’s social circles more proximal—the two would have made great friends and even better musical partners. And had that been the route that screenwriters Carney and McDonald took, it would have left more room for the particular charm baked into Carney’s previous features. When music becomes the means of communication between mothers and children, prospective lovers, close friends, the melting of their voices stands in for a whole lot of talking. Conversation becomes unnecessary if the other person can write the next line of your lyric, picking up where you left off, suggest a wandering melody for the bridge; this is Carney’s great gift as a filmmaker, and, while it is the instigating event of Power Ballad, it is not where the film’s heart lies.

It is Rick’s journey, as he learns to appreciate his ordinary life, that forms the film’s emotional arc. His negotiations and epiphanies involve the people he loves and with whom he does not sing. A lot of telling, and a lot less showing, ensues. The ending is satisfying, even moving, even if the musical montage that gets us there isn’t quite as powerful as it might be (a refrain of “How to Write a Song,” of course).