Let's not beat about the bush here, Taylor Hackford's undoubtedly slick movie has little to make it stand out from the biopic genre other than Jamie Foxx's exceptional, career-making performance. Remember the year they handed the special effects Oscar to the Terminator 2 boffins, uncontested? They should do the same with this year's Best Actor gong.<br /><br />That Ray Charles' story is worthy of filming is not in dispute. Indeed, the many flashbacks to his traumatic childhood are well-handled and judiciously used. But for a life so unique, the film seems incredibly formulaic and familiar. It follows the 'history of a flawed genius' template almost to the letter: hardship and exploitation, women and drugs, recording wrangles, band squabbles, rehab, yeah yeah yeah. And surely there was more humour in his life than we're treated to here?<br /><br />I appreciate Charles' music yet where neatly-cut medleys would have kept the story rolling, Hackford indulges himself with near-full-length renditions of too many songs - in gin joints, in the recording studio, in concert halls, infinitum. Narratively, and for non-devotees, they begin to act like a cinematic brake. This may seem like harsh judgement on a music biopic but with a catalogue as extensive as Ray's, we need a taste not the whole dish. Otherwise, we'd buy the albums.<br /><br />Intrigued as I was, I glanced at my watch more than once. So for all Foxx's brilliance, maybe Ray would have been better served as an HBO two-parter?