All Shook Up — Baz Luhrmann's Elvis film has a Parker problem

"I didn't kill him. I made him." 

Those are the words wheezed by an ailing Colonel Tom Parker in the opening moments of Elvis, the latest film from the director of Moulin Rouge and The Great Gatsby. The ambitious biopic follows Elvis from a young boy growing up in Tupelo, Miss., right to the legendary rock star's end.

However, while Baz Luhrmann's film bears the name of the man in the leather jumpsuit, the person telling us much of the story is Parker, the larger-than-life manager behind the man. 

After showing us Parker stumbling around the casino floor about to cash in his chips, the first of many flashbacks whisk us to the early years where we see Parker working at a carnival, managing a travelling group of musicians. Parker calls himself the snowman because of his ability to snow the rubes out of their money. The key, he explains, is finding the right type of "freak show" to sell tickets.

So when Parker hears a young Elvis Presley, the circus has come to town. 

With the audacious Australian director Luhrmann behind the camera, every moment is hyper-saturated, drenched in music and memory.

As Parker spies Presley and his family preparing for a radio broadcast, first we watch them singing a spiritual folk song, then we flashback as Presley's mother talks of how Elvis' twin brother died (in an animated sequence!). This soon reveals young Presley dressed as the superhero Captain Marvel Jr., simultaneously being drawn to a juke joint blasting blues music, and then a revival tent shaking with a glorious gospel choir.

There Elvis, this one little boy in the middle of the congregation, is overcome. As he shakes to the music the preacher holds back the crowd saying, "Leave him alone, he's with the spirit."

It's a striking moment. One that Luhrmann insists happened. Speaking with CBC News on the red carpet, he said he found a witness to the event who died last year.

"It's on a video verbatim. He said, 'Leave him alone. He's with the spirit.' So this stuff is real," Luhrmann said.

As the multi-tiered flashback ends, we're treated to our first glimpse of Presley the performer. After a taunt from a heckler ("Get a haircut, buttercup"), Presley transforms, his pink two-piece suit gyrating, every thrust loosening squeals from the prim and proper Southern Belles. Luhrmann captures the conclusions as Presley's pink pelvis churns up the crowd into a frenzy. 

This is the freak show of Parker's dreams. It was about more than Presley's talent — it was the transgressive nature of his appeal, presenting and popularizing Black music and moves in the still racially segregated South. 

What sells the moment isn't the screams, or Luhrmann's wild camera angles, but the man stepping into Presley's two-tone shoes: Austin Butler. With the pout and the pompadour, Butler fits the role of the rock 'n' roll icon perfectly. Shaking like a spark plug, he's got swagger to spare. 

But underneath the theatrics, there's a softness in his eyes, an almost wounded presence.