‘Song Sung Blue’ Review: Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson Bring a Neil Diamond Tribute to Life

Tribute bands—musicians who devote themselves to imitating more famous artists—along with the broader class of entertainment workers and popular-culture laborers, are wonderful raw material for drama. Unlike films or stories about celebrities (from Freddie Mercury to Elton John, from Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan), these characters tend to be ordinary people, much closer to the audience: everyday mortals with a dream that often doesn’t quite come true, or only partially does—or, as in this case, is repeatedly frustrated, briefly grows, and then fades away in unexpected ways. Song Sung Blue draws from one of those stories, the kind that feels more real than reality itself and therefore almost unbelievable.

The real story unfolded around Milwaukee, Wisconsin, from the late 1980s to the mid-2000s, and was already told in a 2008 documentary—also titled Song Sung Blue, after one of Neil Diamond’s best-known songs. Diamond is, of course, the songwriter on whom the duo Lightning & Thunder based their act. What Craig Brewer (Hustle & Flow) does here is return to the story previously documented by Greg Kohs, reshape it even further, and apply the familiar narrative arcs that tend to govern this kind of adaptation, while also replacing the real-life protagonists with two major stars: Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson. The result is moving and pleasant—a much more conventional film than the surprising documentary that inspired it, but one that earns its laughs and tears in an honest and, above all, sincere way.

Mike Sardina (Jackman) is a car mechanic who also pursues a parallel career as a musician, playing guitar in a soul band and performing solo shows made up mostly of rock covers. Claire Stengl (Hudson) works as a hairdresser and, in her spare time, delivers spot-on impressions of country singers like Patsy Cline. They meet at a show that goes wrong when Mike refuses to perform the impersonation he’s been asked to do; after hearing Claire sing live, he suggests they form a duo. He will be Lightning, she will be Thunder, and together they will mostly perform songs by their beloved Neil Diamond—a hugely popular American pop songwriter whose epic melodies and dramatic delivery made him a major celebrity, especially in the 1970s.

Over a brisk and engaging 130 minutes, Brewer condenses—far more tightly than real life ever did—the various experiences of this couple, who merge musical passion with a romantic relationship. They get married, live with her two children (he also has a daughter), start gaining recognition across Wisconsin thanks to their elaborate live show (which features half a dozen musicians onstage), and, just as success seems within reach, encounter a series of surprises that alter their careers and, more importantly, their lives in unexpected ways.

The film’s first hour—the most romantic and enthusiastic stretch, before serious problems appear—is its strongest. This is where Jackman’s charisma, always flirting with excess, perfectly matches a character defined by a similar sense of grandiosity. Hudson, in a role that deepens as her character’s life grows more complicated, may not be a revelation—she has over 25 years of experience—but it is unquestionably her best performance since Almost Famous, lighting up the screen with a presence and warmth she hasn’t shown in quite some time. Their combined charisma elevates a film that otherwise sticks fairly closely to the standard narrative beats of this kind of crowd-pleasing drama.

The complication, of course, is that this is a true story, and that’s where Song Sung Blue occasionally reveals its somewhat utilitarian construction—its reshaping of facts and events (not many, but significant in how they function within the story) to heighten emotional impact. These aren’t cheap tricks or dishonest moves; they’re common mechanisms when real life is adapted into fiction. The issue is that, because a documentary version of this same story already exists, those alterations and compressions become more noticeable.

Beyond that, the film’s success depends largely on two factors. First, on the audience’s relationship with Neil Diamond’s songs. Diamond never achieved outside the United States the same level of success or devotion he enjoys at home. Aside from the sports-anthem ubiquity of “Sweet Caroline,” most of his other songs were never as widely popular internationally—something that also weighs on the protagonists, who try to avoid leaning too heavily (especially Mike) on that one obvious hit, preferring instead to spotlight well-known but less predictable tracks like “Solitary Man,” “Holly Holy,” “Play Me,” “Forever in Blue Jeans,” or the title song itself.

Second—and this is what ultimately distinguishes both the documentary and the fiction—is the generosity, empathy, and affection the films show toward their characters. They never mock them, ironize their choices, or treat them with condescension. Their efforts, sacrifices, and suffering in pursuit of a life built around music are what matter most, beyond the musical results themselves, which are more than respectable in context.

Alongside this, the fictional film makes a point of keeping the personal, family, and communal dimensions of such a project in view. At one low point, Lightning finds work at a Thai restaurant, performing solo and hosting karaoke nights. What could have been the nadir of his career turns into something else entirely, thanks to the way great songs allow strangers to connect with one another. Understanding that secret is part of the quiet magic of this beautiful and sad story.