Dionne and Burt

In a bittersweet coincidence, we watched a documentary about Dionne Warwick, which featured songwriter Burt Bacharach, who died yesterday at 94. I don't want to overshadow her story, but it felt appropriate, after having started writing the review, to twin the two, whose careers might have been unimaginable if not for each other.

DIONNE WARWICK: DON'T MAKE ME OVER (B) - This is quite the hagiography, but then, the legendary singer deserves a flattering tribute, and it's not like she has skeletons in her closet, unless you want to ding her for shilling for a psychic hotline, or the rock star sins of drug possession and tax manipulations (and Twitter silliness).

Warwick, with the gospel training she shared with her cousin Whitney Houston, had a dynamic voice and range, and that's the biggest asset of this film, which takes the time to let most of her big hits play out rather than chopping them up into snippets. Starting in 1962, when she was 21, she was teamed with Burt Bacharach and Hal David, the team that would pen many of her hits in the 1960s. Warwick, in turn, would put those men on the map. (As the New York Times writes today, "Bacharach realized he had found the rare vocalist with the technical prowess to negotiate his rangy, fiercely difficult melodies, with their tricky time signatures and extended asymmetrical phrases." In other words, the woman could sing.)

Warwick, still spry and playful in her early 80s, is an engaging subject, and journeyman directors David Heilbroner and Dave Wooley don't overthink things here. They get out of the way of Warwick's talents and personality. They load up on talking heads, including Bacharach but also "That's What Friends Are For" pals Stevie Wonder, Gladys Knight, and Elton John, plus superfan Bill Clinton, Quincy Jones, Cissy Houston, Berry Gordy Jr. and Chuck Jackson (Bacharach's "Any Day Now"). We also hear from Snoop Dogg, who spins the story of Warwick, back in the era of gangsta rap, convening an early-morning summit at her mansion to lecture Dogg and his cohorts about their vulgar and misogynistic lyrics. Like other moments in the documentary, the tale feels sanitized and embellished -- Warwick as wise, kindly auntie -- but no harm, no foul.

We also have to sit through fawning comments from the ever-smug Clive Davis (who lured her to Arista records in the late '70s and helped revive her career) and treacly sentiments from Warwick's sons, one of whom is in the music business. So, it's all very cheery and uplifting, filtered through the gauze of nostalgia, and big deal, what do you want, a hit job that tears through her tax filings? No. What the world needs now, is love, sweet love -- it's the only thing that there's just too little of. For 90 minutes, just give me a C, a bouncy C.

BONUS TRACKS

Let's celebrate some of Warwick's greatest hits. First, my favorite from the Bacharach-David trove, "I Say a Little Prayer," with one of the greatest couplets ever written to kick off a song:

The film's title track, her breakthrough hit, "Don't Make Me Over":

And a third from Bacharach and David, "Anyone Who Had a Heart":

And then some later-career ear candy written and produced by Barry Gibb, "Heartbreaker":

 

While she had numerous hits, Warwick never had a solo number-one song on the main U.S. charts, but she did reach the top with "That's What Friends Are For" (with the super quartet) and one of my favorites, 1974's "Then Came You," with the Spinners: