This is a schlocky, wrongheaded film that often feels more like an episode of Starsky and Hutch than the story of one of history's most influential musicians. Clumsily directed by star Don Cheadle, the film shows us a couple of chaotic days in the life of Miles Davis circa 1979, a period in which he had quit performing in favor of holding up in his Manhattan brownstone snorting cocaine by the bushel.
It's one thing to jazz up (no pun intended) a biopic but it's another to entirely abandon the realm of known, settled history for the cheap thrills of gunplay and car chases. In 1979, Miles Davis was so addled by substance abuse and osteoarthritis it seems quite unlikely that he would suddenly morph into a Rambo-esque killing machine. Cheadle may call it artistic license. I call it a dumpster fire.