The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order, by June 10, 2015. Remaining movies: 318 (for now, I keep buying more) Days to go: 310
Movie #52: Chicago
The best idea Rob Marshall ever had was to turn the incredibly insular and affected stage production of Chicago into a motion picture by presenting each one of the very stage-y musical numbers as figments of accused killer and sociopath Roxie Hart’s imagination. It allowed for a seamless transition into songs that are often meant to be directed at an audience because it made the audience, the performance, the costumes, the lighting, all imaginary. Now once someone starts singing, it doesn’t take you out of the action, but rather adds layers to the delusional nature of the lead character and says even more about the pull and drive of celebrity than just the songs and the dialogue do on their own. It’s a wholly more effective tale, and it netted the movie six Oscar wins (out of thirteen nominations) in the process.
Chicago is an excellent story. It’s not just about a woman who cheats on her husband and then shoots the man she was having an affair with. It’s about the sensationalism of these acts, the “phony celebrity” that comes with them, and the cynical, mercurial nature of fame, the media, and the justice system. It’s not just about advancing the plot when the only innocent woman on Murderer’s Row becomes the first woman in Illinois to be executed; it’s about how innocence and truth won’t get you anywhere, and money and influence are the only things that will. It’s an incredibly jaded, pessimistic view of life and society, yet people consider Chicago a feel-good movie. Why? The gorgeous production, for one, the winning cast, for another, and the songs.
“All That Jazz” might be the perfect opening number ever composed, in terms of a catchy, raucous tune that sets the entire tone of the film. Jazz sisters Velma and Veronica Kelly are late — they’re supposed to be going on stage any second. When Velma (Catherine Zeta-Jones) arrives alone she is agitated and brusque. She rips Veronica’s name off their poster, declares she will do the show by herself, and goes into her dressing room to quickly change. Still not having seen her face, the audience then gets a view of her hands, red with blood, and the gun she hides before washing them. And as she goes on stage, wowing the crowd even without the help of her sister — “it’s just a noisy hall, where there’s a nightly brawl” — the camera introduces us to Roxie Hart (Renee Zellweger) who watches the performance with sharp interest, and then imagines herself in the starring role before some guy assures her he’s working out a shot for her with a club manager before grabbing her ass and leading her out to her apartment. And that right there tells you everything you need to know about our two lead women. Velma Kelly is a bossy diva who does what she wants — her expression one of defiance and daring when the district attorney shows up to have her arrested. Roxie Hart is a gullible yet determined nobody with big dreams of stardom who engages in illicit rendezvous with potentially useful men.
As Roxie kills this man a month later, feeling insulted by his rebuffing of her dreams, and convinces her husband Amos (John C. Reilly) to take the blame, the music shifts into a sultry, sleepy song of love and devotion, “Funny Honey,” which itself shifts into a condemnation of this idiot she married when it becomes clear, during his interrogation by the police which runs concurrently with the song, that he can’t and won’t get her out of this mess she’s gotten herself into. It’s so cleverly worded and sly, many lines finding dual meanings along the way.
Queen Latifah’s performance (as prison Matron Mama Morton) of “When You’re Good to Mama” — imagined by Roxie upon her introduction to prison life, where it becomes clear there’s a process of buying favors — is probably my favorite of all the songs on the soundtrack, which is saying a lot because I’m actually in love with the whole thing, start to finish. But if you like clever wordplay, this song is where it’s at. Every line, every verse is a mixture of payola and sexual innuendo. “When they pass that basket, folks contribute to, you put in for Mama, she’ll put out for you.” I mean, that’s brilliant. (My favorite line of that one, though, is actually “They say that life is tit for tat, and that’s the way I live; So I deserve a lot of tat, for what I’ve got to give.” That’s fantastic.)
“Cell Block Tango” is probably the most famous song on the bill, after “All That Jazz,” and rightfully so. It’s catchy and funny and powerfully sung, plus it gives you the (somewhat ridiculous) backstories of all the other murderesses Roxie’s in with — the two most important being, of course, Velma’s story, and the story of Katarina who — “Uh-uh” — didn’t do it. All these women, including Roxie to be honest, believe they were justified in killing the men they killed, be it for popping their gum or doing number 17 — the “Spread-Eagle.” Velma swears she doesn’t even remember what happened, “only that [she] didn’t do it,” and Roxie is willing to say whatever manufactured grounds she and her lawyer Billy Flynn (Richard Gere) can think of in order to win her sympathy with the press.
Several of the remaining songs are variations on cynical themes of personal interest and public manipulation. “All I Care About Is Love,” “Roxie,” and “I Can’t Do It Alone” are all about the idea that there are no people here without ulterior motives. Billy isn’t so much interested in justice as he is in huge payouts from his clients. Roxie wants everyone to love her and revere her, to recognize her eyes, hair, boobs and nose. And when Velma sees her and Roxie’s roles reversed, with Roxie getting all the media attention and Velma all-but forgotten in the paper, she performs “an act of desperation” to get Roxie on her side and working with her instead of against her. Meanwhile “We Both Reached For the Gun,” “Razzle Dazzle” and “Tap Dance” — that last a literal tap dance intercut with Billy’s Perry Mason moment — are all hysterical, tongue-in-cheek ruminations on the ability to frame a person’s public image based solely on emotional manipulation, fancy footwork and parlor tricks (metaphorically speaking) to distract from the truth of the matter. It’s a statement about our society and our obsession with celebrity that is just as relevant today as it was twelve, forty, or even a hundred years ago. Facts are secondary; Perception is everything. (Though please note that not even a narcissist like Roxie Hart wants to be famous for being a freak act.)
The most heartfelt and subsequently heartbreaking song of the show is “Mr. Cellophane,” about how Amos is invisible to everyone — his wife, her attorney, everyone. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt that way, how many times someone has called me Jennifer (or something even further from reality — once someone called me Esther, for chrissakes) and I’ve felt that gut punch of the unmemorable, of the forgotten, of those unworthy of notice. If I were to confess the deepest secrets of my heart, fear of being completely inconsequential would be right there in the mix. But Amos isn’t sensational and he doesn’t know how to play the game. He’s just an earnest man trying to live a decent life, and for that, in the eyes of everyone in the film, he is no one. So while the obsessive quest for celebrity might be a sickness, it’s also completely normal and necessary to want to be noticed. I love that Chicago tells that side of the story as well, and I confess every time Billy calls Amos “Andy” (heehee), I choke just a bit on my laugh.
“That’s Chicago.”
Viable Option 