Austin Butler, Tom Hanks glow in the Shakespearean epic of 'Elvis' | MARK HUGHES COBB

One thing kept Baz Luhrmann's "Elvis" movie from undiluted greatness, and that one thing is Baz Luhrmann.

Oh, he's tamped down his excesses: the quavering, slashing edits; the urgent charge to zoom skin-close into grotesqueries; the compulsion to splash cheap glitz and fire-engine red across any inanimate thing. This biopic may not actually require a trigger warning for those prone to seizures, unlike "Moulin Rouge," or Luhrmann's previous spatterings of moistened glitter globs, "Romeo + Juliet," and "The Great Gatsby."

But the Australian's compulsion to juice up even simple moments — a young white boy stumbling on juke-joint blues, into a tent revival, or down a hopping and bopping Beale Street — into something like LSD-splashed sideshow strain against the emotional heft, which is otherwise lofted in super-heroic fashion by Austin Butler, who does an astounding job portraying one of the most famous, most filmed and followed figures in human history. Every twitch, sneer, twist and howl, this kid lives it.

Though "Elvis" stays more coherent than the writer-director's whirls at Shakespeare and Fitzgerald, the wavering narrative can't live up to Butler's performance, or that of Tom Hanks, in his bulbous, glutinous turn as Col. Tom Parker.

Seriously, with but a tiny tweak of soundtrack — because another ongoing Luhrmann issue is his inability to leave music unmarred — this could be a monster flick. If it were not for Butler's luminous presence, Hanks' Parker would be, like Tim Curry's sewer-poop clown Pennywise in the TV miniseries version of "It," a rapturous, scenery-chewing dive vastly exceeding its environment.

At moments, Luhrmann wishes to humanize Parker, a monumental feat even Hanks' ministrations can't manage. Maybe Shakespeare himself could have crafted a fully dimensional creature out of this clammy clump of con in a cheap suit.

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Falstaff comes closest (or as his more directly comedic form, Sir Toby Belch from "Twelfth Night," the lumbering tub of guts who wheedles his way through, living high off the works and worth of others. Outspoken Shakespearean Harold Bloom considers the plays about Prince Hal, known to most as the Henriad, to in fact be the Falstaffiad. In 2017, Bloom published his final love letter, the book "Falstaff: Give Me Life," where he deems that magnificent mess "the grandest personality in all of Shakespeare."

Though Mistress Quickly eulogized an off-stage death in "Henry V," by virtue of his admirable vitality, Falstaff strove on. Orson Welles brought him front and center for the masterpiece "Chimes at Midnight," which draws from the Henry plays, from "Richard II" and of course "Merry Wives of Windsor," where The Bard, bowing to the popularity of his creation, revived Sir John. Giuseppe Verdi, Ralph Vaughan Williams, Otto Nicolai, Antonio Salieri and others have written operas about the aging fat knight.

The similarities don't end at corpulence, though Parker — he was neither Colonel nor Tom, but a Dutch emigrant, living in this country illegally — might easily be confused, visually, for Shakespeare's man, "... this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh .... that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his belly.”

Both Falstaff and Parker —  born Andreas Cornelis (Dries) van Kuijk — realize they are not kingly material themselves, and instead sidle up within the glow of royalty. Falstaff teases young Prince Hal into turmoil and trouble, only to be abandoned as Hal evolves into King Henry V, the fella who gives that soul-stirring "We few, we happy few; we band of brothers" speech, rousing the English to defeat the French, a real come-from-behind victory.

Unlike Falstaff, though, Parker/van Kujik never fancied himself beloved, and in this script, at least, gamely admits to his shortcomings, while, nothing up my sleeve, presto, pulling yet another pitchman's trick out of a filthy hatful of 'em.

In one of the movie's invented moments, the King does attempt to banish the unwanted, clinging presence, calling out from the International Hotel stage a blistering condemnation of lies and betrayals. Sadly, that didn't happen in real life; at least not on stage, with a hot mic and Vegas crowd gawping.

But it's a catharsis for all who've wondered "Why in the world did Elvis put up with a manager who took 50 percent?" The real-life answers probably lay in loyalty, and the naivete of a man born with sway, strut and swing, but like his poor father Vernon (a gamely raw Richard Roxburgh) not a lick of business sense.

At times, heavy-handed foreshadowing lands with a clunk, like Elvis saying: "Ah just gotta be making the most of this thing while ah can. This could all be over in a flash." Metaphors straining at flight whip around like a wet dog's tangles, clumsily as in George Roy Hill's stab at John Irving's "The World According to Garp," another film where individual performances, by Glenn Close and John Lithgow, far outshone surroundings.

Luhrmann can't decide if he's amused or disgusted by the old man who seemed to live only to sell, sell, sell. His camera swoops into Hanks' jiggling, pock-marked prosthetics, staring unblinkingly at horrors, at what the salesman did — allegedly — in attempts to keep his one show pony up and running.

The movie flails when it strays from Butler, who, say it again, gets it all right, down to minutiae, to movements, to the insouciance of youth evolving into the swagger of young studhood, to varying nuances of tone, not just in his singing — Butler did his own — but in speaking. It's remarkable how aptly this performance captures the Tupelo kid changing from shy, wide-eyed boy to impressionable, dynamic man, growing into something larger than life, before imploding into a stumbling mess, a wreck. A star collapsing into a black hole.

Other young men fought for the role, among them Aaron Taylor-Johnson, Harry Styles, Miles Teller and Ansel Elgort (Yech. It wasn't enough for him to lard down Tony in Spielberg's "West Side Story"?), but suffice to say Luhrmann chose wisely. This kid's so perfect, the movie pull offs a remarkable ending shift.

Spoiler alert.

As the '70s roll on, and Butler oozes into fat, fades away, the film subs in footage of actual near-death Elvis — grossly overweight at 42, due to a diet heavy in fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and a horrific mixture of uppers and downers to keep the show going, then pausing, then going .... — and it may take moments to register the shift, during which you may, as I did, find tears filling your eyes.

Even when clumsily handled, the story of a dirt-poor child soaring, through purity of spirit and freedom of movement, to rewrite the actual concept of stardom, but ultimately plummeting under the weight of excess, that is a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare.

A few brief actual-Elvis clips and photos slip in earlier, but they're twitches, small choices that don't land hard, a stuttering confabulation. Personally, I'd have liked to see what Butler could do with the final roaring "Unchained Melody."

Butler begins, then, almost imperceptibly, we move into the real thing. You may have seen this footage, shot from Elvis' last concert, where, sweating profusely, hoarse, breathy, nearly incoherent at times, he sits at a piano as guitarist Charlie Hodge holds a vocal mic up to the impromptu choice. The ballad sputters, ramps up, glides down, chokes, stalls, revs almost beyond control. Elvis rages against the dying of the light.

In a differently told tale, this would mark the turning point to a painful, hard-earned comeback. In reality, it was a death knell, his last song. Elvis sang it like he knew.

Reach Tusk Editor Mark Hughes Cobb at mark.cobb@tuscaloosanews.com, or call 205-722-0201.