‘Power Ballads’ Shows How Jams Can Get Sticky

Middle-aged men fronting garage bands who have long since traded their air-guitar fantasies for mortgages and dad bods: Power Ballad sees you. John Carney’s latest music-themed comedy-drama leans into the melancholic reality of anyone with pipe dreams that never really worked out — and, like a monkey’s paw wish, supposes the What If? scenario of experiencing superstardom through the singalong thrill of a Top-Ten hit.

This being a movie by the lovably sentimental filmmaker Carney (Once, Begin Again, and Sing Street), though, the twisty turns that follow in this be-careful-what-you-wish-for modern fairy tale never get too dark, and almost always resolve their minor chords into major modulations of real-world satisfaction.

Genial everyman Paul Rudd plays genial musician Rick Power, the fortysomething lead singer of a modestly popular wedding band based outside of Dublin called The Bride and Groove. He’s a rock-solid simulacrum of a rock star who nails the ’80s oldies with crowd-cheering aplomb, but still can’t help himself by sneaking in a milquetoast self-penned ditty that promptly clears the dance floor. “We’re human jukeboxes,” a bandmate reminds him: stick to the playlist, and keep the original stuff at home.

Power Ballads ★★★ (3/5 stars)
Directed by: John Carney
Written by: John Carney, Peter McDonald
Starring: Paul Rudd, Nick Jonas, Peter McDonald, Marcella Plunkett, Beth Fallon, Havana Rose Liu, Jack Reynor
Running time: 98 mins

One weekend, they’re hired to play a lavish wedding at a posh estate, and among the guests of the betrothed is former boy-band heartthrob Danny Wilson (Nick Jonas). He’s nearly a decade out from those glory days, enough to make him humble — and even a little desperate. At the wedding, the self-effacing Danny is genial, and happy to indulge the newlyweds’ last-minute request for him to join the band onstage for a quick cover of Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish.” Rick is skeptical, but once they start sharing vocals, the pair realize they have a blast harmonizing.

After the reception, Rick bumps into Danny, who invites him into his palatial bedroom suite for beer, whiskey, pot, and an all-night jam session. They both share works-in-progress which feed you-get-me vibes that inspire even more collaboration. One of the catchiest riffs is “How to Write a Song (Without You),” one of Rick’s ever-gestating, never finished ballads.

Rick wrote it after settling down with Irish wife Rachel (Marcella Plunkett) and daughter Aja (Beth Fallon), in the process, forsaking his life in a promising American rock band on tour overseas so he can stay in the Emerald Isle. Danny recognizes greatness, and they polish it up even more. Six months later, “How to Write a Song (Without You)” becomes a worldwide phenomenon. And — at the risk of sounding too coy (no spoilers!) — that’s where the conflict begins.

Power Ballad wrestles not only with authorship, but authenticity. Can a creative person really be successful if they’re not sincere? Short answer: of course! But not in any lasting way. Carney’s films never settle for easy platitudes about how the muse strikes. At his best, Carney’s characters communicate through music — not just by singing a song, but by constructing it, wrestling with it, embodying it. He’s the rare filmmaker who spends time showing characters playing instruments, rehearsing their work, struggling with the process of creation, sharing the lived experience of a performance.

Where this film falls short is in the mechanics of all the other storytelling. The tensions that arise between Rick and Danny feel real, but the roadblocks that separate them aren’t completely convincing. Rick’s commitment to his hastily-drawn family also gets short-shrift, which is a shame considering how insistent the movie is about their importance in his life.

Like a sweet love song straining to be an anthemic hit, Power Ballad hits the high notes but doesn’t quite shake the arena’s foundations. It’s a pat paean to realness: catchy, genial, sincere, and ultimately a bit thin. But the film admirably wears its heart on its sleeve, and is a quiet but compelling plea for people to be more emotionally honest—not only with each other, but with themselves. These days, that quality feels more elusive than a catchy earworm.