SILVER SCREEN

ON A MISSION FROM GOD: THE BLUES BROTHERS  TURNS FORTY-FIVE

FRANCOIS BLEUS

February 25, 2025

Forty-five years after its release, “The Blues Brothers” remains a high-energy spectacle of music and mischief. More than a comedy, it’s a riotous anthem of rebellion, powered by deadpan cool, relentless chaos, and a fearless embrace of Black musical heritage.

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The Blues Brothers, released in 1980, turns forty-five this year, and while it is mostly remembered for its high-octane car chases, deadpan comedy, and legendary musical performances, the film is, at its core, a raucous ballet of anarchic mischief, a cinematic sermon on joyous insubordination that gleefully deconstructs societal strictures with wild spontaneity, unhinged improvisation, and the bold defiance of a renegade storyteller. Its anarchy is not chaotic, nihilistic, or destructive, but swaggering and groove-infused—an unapologetic affront to convention, reveling in its own absurdity. With its gleeful disregard for authority, its steadfast devotion to Black music, and its unabashed war on redneck cowboys, neo-Nazis, and the police, The Blues Brothers was far ahead of its era in ways that feel sharper today.

Every single car crash in The Blues Brothers

At a time when Hollywood often segregated Black and white narratives and/or relegated Black characters to side roles, The Blues Brothers embraced integration with a natural ease that feels even more radical today. And unlike films now, which often approach racial discourse with a heavy-handed or didactic tone, The Blues Brothers lets joy, irreverence, and unforced camaraderie do the talking. In this world, racial barriers are broken through shared culture and mutual respect, and the best way to challenge societal divisions is with rhythm and belly laughter.

John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd, playing Jake and Elwood Blues, are cultural saboteurs, smashing through society’s expectations with a dry wit that never wavers. Dressed in their signature black suits and sunglasses, they exude an effortless cool, moving through the world as if propelled by destiny—or at least by an impeccable rhythm section. Their mission? To scrape together $5,000 to save the orphanage where they were raised—a hilariously noble quest that justifies their utterly deranged methods. But beneath the mayhem, the film is a love letter to music, particularly Black music. It functions as both a shrine to and a showcase for blues, soul, and R&B, granting screen time to legends like Aretha Franklin, James Brown, Ray Charles, and Cab Calloway (with a guest appearance by John Lee Hooker). These performances are not passive tributes; they crackle with urgency, embodying the depth and influence of Black musical history.

Toasted white bread, four chickens, and a Coke

Aretha Franklin’s performance of “Think” is far more than a musical interlude—it is an assertion of power, a demand for respect, and a statement of agency. Cast as a diner owner with no patience for nonsense, Franklin brings to the screen the same fiery presence that made her the undisputed Queen of Soul. In the narrative, she is confronting her wayward husband, but in the broader context of the film and US culture, she is channeling something much larger. The song, originally released in 1968 during the height of the civil rights movement, was already an anthem of empowerment, particularly for Black women, who were demanding autonomy in a world that often sought to silence them. Franklin’s performance in the film reaffirms this message, infusing what could have been a throwaway scene with righteous defiance. Her voice—a force of nature—does not merely sing; it commands. The choreography of the scene, with the kitchen staff joining in, elevates it beyond a personal plea into a communal demand for respect. Franklin, whose career had already spanned decades by this point, embodies both the grit and the glory of her own artistic journey, turning a simple marital argument into a rallying cry for independence, dignity, and self-respect.

The god of gospel, funk, and soul

James Brown, ever the preacher, likewise transforms his moment in The Blues Brothers into something transcendent. His performance of “The Old Landmark” at a packed church service is a revival, an explosion of funk-infused spirituality that blurs the line between sermon and spectacle. Brown, a legendary showman known for his electrifying stage presence, brings that same urgency to this scene. Every sweat-drenched gesture is a testament to his belief in the redemptive power of rhythm. Historically, gospel music has always been a site of resistance, a space where Black Americans can find solace and strength. Brown taps into that lineage, but instead of a traditional gospel performance, he injects it with the energy of funk, underscoring the film’s larger thesis that music is not just entertainment—it is salvation. It is a way of transforming hardship into joy, suffering into celebration.

Ray Charles, playing the proprietor of a struggling music store, delivers a performance that serves as both a reminder and a challenge. His rendition of “Shake a Tail Feather” is a master class in infectious energy that turns into a block party. Charles, whose blindness never hindered his ability to see deeper truths through music, represents the permanence of genius, the idea that brilliance never fades, only evolves. In this sequence, the film pays homage to his role in shaping modern music, positioning him as both a keeper of tradition and a harbinger of uncontainable joy. The way the scene unfolds, with people dancing in the streets, underscores the communal spirit at the heart of Black music. It is not something to be passively consumed, but something to be felt, shared, and experienced in motion.

I do not think there is anything wrong with the action on this piano.

And then there’s Cab Calloway, the elder statesman of jazz, whose career predated nearly everyone else heretofore mentioned. He slips effortlessly into the role of mentor and showman, his performance of “Minnie the Moocher” a stunning bridge between the past and the present. Calloway, a legend from the big band era, reminds the audience that the lineage of Black music is long, rich, and deeply connected across generations. With his signature call-and-response style and his playful yet commanding delivery, he conjures a bygone time while proving that its essence is still alive. The film, in this moment, acknowledges its own debt to the pioneers who paved the way, ensuring that the history of jazz, swing, and early rhythm and blues is not just remembered, but felt.

Dancing night

Each of these moments—Franklin’s demand for respect, Brown’s electrified sermon, Charles’s street dance party, and Calloway’s invocation of jazz’s golden age—are not incidental to The Blues Brothers. They are its soul. These are not mere cameos; they are the heartbeat, the argument, the larger purpose. The Blues Brothers is not just about two white men in suits on a mission from God. It is about the musical traditions that made their mission possible. The film, intentionally or not, acknowledges that Black music is resistance, Black music is history, Black music is revolution. These performances serve as reminders that American music is inseparable from the struggle, the survival, and the triumphs of the people who created it.

At the heart of the film’s humor is Jake and Elwood’s unflappable deadpan. Their refusal to react to even the most ridiculous circumstances—whether dodging machine gun fire, executing death-defying car stunts, or being pursued by what seems like every cop in Illinois—elevates the absurdity to high art. Their comedic style, forged by Aykroyd’s meticulous writing and Belushi’s intuitive genius, juxtaposes razor-sharp dryness with the outright ludicrous, making every catastrophe seem oddly poetic. Their oft-repeated mantra, “We’re on a mission from God,” is delivered with a conviction so sincere it becomes transcendental. They are modern saints of mischief, disciples of chaos wrapped in the garments of blues tradition.    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKZSqd5Y8nA

The Lord and I have an understanding.

Beyond the two stars, The Blues Brothers benefits immensely from its stellar supporting cast. Carrie Fisher delivers a hilarious and unexpectedly menacing turn as Jake’s jilted ex-fiancée, wielding military-grade weaponry with an eerie calm and relentless determination. Her cartoonishly violent vendetta adds another layer of absurdity to the film’s anarchic spirit. Meanwhile, John Candy’s Burton Mercer, a parole officer who helps police try to catch the Blues Brothers, provides a delightful counterbalance to the chaos, making him one of the film’s most understated comedic gems. His simple yet memorable line, “Orange whip? Orange whip? Three orange whips!” remains one of the most inexplicably funny moments, proving Candy’s ability to steal a scene with minimal effort.

M16 (aka SP1) with thirty-round magazine

The Blues Brothers is revolutionary not just in its reverence for Black culture, but also in its portrayal of racial integration as a given. Jake and Elwood move through Black spaces not as interlopers, but as natural inhabitants. Their band is a seamless blend of Black and white musicians; their spiritual awakening happens in a Black church; and their loyalties never waver. For a mainstream Hollywood film in 1980, this was radical. Decades before films tackling race became more self-consciously weighty, The Blues Brothers did it through joy and groove, allowing the vitality of Black culture to take center stage without burdening it with exposition or apology.

And then, of course, there are the villains—cartoonish, ridiculous, and yet deeply recognizable. The Blues Brothers takes aim at reactionary forces with a gleeful lack of subtlety. The Illinois Nazis, parading their ignorance and hate, are swept into the river as if by divine intervention. The Confederacy-loving country band is humiliated and outplayed. The police, relentless and absurdly over-militarized, are left choking on the dust of Jake and Elwood’s tires. The film never pretends these forces don’t exist, but it mocks them mercilessly, offering an alternative universe where rhythm, irreverence, and sheer determination always outmaneuver oppression.

All the representatives of the Illinois law enforcement community

Looking at The Blues Brothers in 2025, its themes seem more relevant than ever. The film’s exuberant defiance resonates in an era where institutional overreach, systemic racism, and cultural gatekeeping are still seemingly inexorable facts of life. It is a reminder that rebellion doesn’t always have to be grim or self-serious—it can be a saxophone solo, a perfectly timed one-liner, a car crash that defies physics. In a world where activism often feels like a relentless grind, The Blues Brothers offers a different vision: resistance as joy, as movement, as unrelenting, electrifying sound. Sometimes, the best way to fight the system is to dance through its cracks and drive straight through its barricades—preferably with the radio turned all the way up.

Francois Bleus, aka Frankie Blues, is the forgotten third brother of Jake and Elwood, left behind at the orphanage when they were adopted. A drifter and jukebox repairman, he roamed Louisiana music joints for decades, mastering every blues trick the Delta had to offer. While his brothers dodged cops, he ran dice games and fixed amps for Mississippi musical legends. Today, he is continuing his own crusade—keeping the blues alive, one busted speaker at a time.

Cover image: Jake and Elwood