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'Chicago' at the Merriam
Dan Rottenberg
All that monotony:
Can we talk about Chicago, please?
DAN ROTTENBERG
As someone who lived in Chicago for four years, I can testify that the Windy City exudes a rough, crude vitality that’s exciting as hell when you first arrive but that grates on you after a while. The City of the Big Shoulders is best experienced through the arrangement I developed in the 14 years after I moved away: dropping in every few months to write articles for Chicago magazine while actually living in a more mature, nuanced city like Philadelphia.
In that respect Chicago the musical is very much like Chicago the city: From the start, it grabs you by the throat with its brassy music, its relentless energy, its mechanistic dancing, its unapologetically cynical plot and equally unapologetically spartan set, its hard bodies and equally hard musicians (in a 14-piece orchestra, only three strings, one of them a banjo), and its severe color scheme (black on black on black). But after ten minutes or so— once you’ve noticed the absence of any story to speak of, any characters to empathize with, any human conflict worthy of your emotion or concern— you might as well be watching a gymnastics class with a sound track. As the man sitting behind me asked when the first act ended, “Is this the intermission, or is it over?”
A drama worthy of “Archie” comics
Chicago’s plot, such as it is, concerns the inclination of attention-starved women in a city where anything goes (Chicago in the Roaring ’20s) to murder their husbands and lovers with alacrity— not primarily to terminate their relationships, but to enhance their prospects for a career in show business. (The matron of the Cook County Jail is portrayed as a savvy conduit to the top Broadway talent agencies.) The dramatic conflict, such as it is, concerns the jealousy between two of these murderesses, Velma Kelly and Roxy Hart, as they struggle to capture the public’s eye (securing an acquittal from a jury is a secondary concern). This competition is about as meaningful as the rivalry, in the old “Archie” comic books, between Betty and Veronica, who differed only in that one was a blonde and the other a brunette. Not since John Travolta rode a mechanical bull against Scott Glenn in Urban Cowboy have we witnessed conflict of such dubious dramatic impact.
To be sure, Chicago contains some wonderful musical numbers by John Kander and Fred Ebb— “All That Jazz,” “Mister Cellophane” and “Whatever Happened to Class?”, to name three of my favorites. These have achieved classic status through repeated performance in revues and cabarets— intimate settings where, I think, their wit and intelligence actually work better. Charismatic performers could undoubtedly cover Chicago’s plot shortcomings, but this touring cast wasn’t up to that challenge. Melba Moore as matron Mama Morton was in especially fine voice in her signature number (“When You’re Good to Mama”). But Bianca Marroquin as Roxie, Terra MacLeod as Velma and Tom Wopat as the hotshot lawyer Billy Flynn struck me as merely competent but unmemorable.
Yet another show about putting on a show
I say “struck me” because my reaction to Chicago is decidedly a minority voice. Chicago has won six Tony awards, and its current New York revival— which recently celebrated its tenth anniversary— is the longest-running revival in Broadway history. The show’s recent one-week Philadelphia engagement played to virtually full houses. In the Inquirer, critic Howard Shapiro enthused that “all the bodies of the dancing cast, moving often as if they were all one spring,” reminded him of the Slinky toy of his childhood, “continuing spinelessly down a flight of stairs, or clinking to a stop.” No doubt some people would happily pay $73.50 to watch a Slinky for two and a half hours. Me, I’d rather spend the money on liquor, cigars and chorus girls.
In its conceit that everybody wants to be in show biz, Chicago offers yet another demonstration of entertainers’ infatuation with themselves. Broadway and Hollywood directors create so many shows and films about show business because that’s the only subject they really know well. Oklahoma, South Pacific, Guys and Dolls, West Side Story and Fiddler On the Roof were great musicals because they mythologized ordinary people. A Chorus Line, 42nd Street, The Producers and Chicago, on the other hand, mythologize figures who are already mythological. David Eisenhower— grandson of Ike, son-in-law of Nixon— once astutely remarked that “journalists aren’t as interesting as they think they are.” Isn’t it time to apply the same observation to entertainers?
To read responses, click here.
Can we talk about Chicago, please?
DAN ROTTENBERG
As someone who lived in Chicago for four years, I can testify that the Windy City exudes a rough, crude vitality that’s exciting as hell when you first arrive but that grates on you after a while. The City of the Big Shoulders is best experienced through the arrangement I developed in the 14 years after I moved away: dropping in every few months to write articles for Chicago magazine while actually living in a more mature, nuanced city like Philadelphia.
In that respect Chicago the musical is very much like Chicago the city: From the start, it grabs you by the throat with its brassy music, its relentless energy, its mechanistic dancing, its unapologetically cynical plot and equally unapologetically spartan set, its hard bodies and equally hard musicians (in a 14-piece orchestra, only three strings, one of them a banjo), and its severe color scheme (black on black on black). But after ten minutes or so— once you’ve noticed the absence of any story to speak of, any characters to empathize with, any human conflict worthy of your emotion or concern— you might as well be watching a gymnastics class with a sound track. As the man sitting behind me asked when the first act ended, “Is this the intermission, or is it over?”
A drama worthy of “Archie” comics
Chicago’s plot, such as it is, concerns the inclination of attention-starved women in a city where anything goes (Chicago in the Roaring ’20s) to murder their husbands and lovers with alacrity— not primarily to terminate their relationships, but to enhance their prospects for a career in show business. (The matron of the Cook County Jail is portrayed as a savvy conduit to the top Broadway talent agencies.) The dramatic conflict, such as it is, concerns the jealousy between two of these murderesses, Velma Kelly and Roxy Hart, as they struggle to capture the public’s eye (securing an acquittal from a jury is a secondary concern). This competition is about as meaningful as the rivalry, in the old “Archie” comic books, between Betty and Veronica, who differed only in that one was a blonde and the other a brunette. Not since John Travolta rode a mechanical bull against Scott Glenn in Urban Cowboy have we witnessed conflict of such dubious dramatic impact.
To be sure, Chicago contains some wonderful musical numbers by John Kander and Fred Ebb— “All That Jazz,” “Mister Cellophane” and “Whatever Happened to Class?”, to name three of my favorites. These have achieved classic status through repeated performance in revues and cabarets— intimate settings where, I think, their wit and intelligence actually work better. Charismatic performers could undoubtedly cover Chicago’s plot shortcomings, but this touring cast wasn’t up to that challenge. Melba Moore as matron Mama Morton was in especially fine voice in her signature number (“When You’re Good to Mama”). But Bianca Marroquin as Roxie, Terra MacLeod as Velma and Tom Wopat as the hotshot lawyer Billy Flynn struck me as merely competent but unmemorable.
Yet another show about putting on a show
I say “struck me” because my reaction to Chicago is decidedly a minority voice. Chicago has won six Tony awards, and its current New York revival— which recently celebrated its tenth anniversary— is the longest-running revival in Broadway history. The show’s recent one-week Philadelphia engagement played to virtually full houses. In the Inquirer, critic Howard Shapiro enthused that “all the bodies of the dancing cast, moving often as if they were all one spring,” reminded him of the Slinky toy of his childhood, “continuing spinelessly down a flight of stairs, or clinking to a stop.” No doubt some people would happily pay $73.50 to watch a Slinky for two and a half hours. Me, I’d rather spend the money on liquor, cigars and chorus girls.
In its conceit that everybody wants to be in show biz, Chicago offers yet another demonstration of entertainers’ infatuation with themselves. Broadway and Hollywood directors create so many shows and films about show business because that’s the only subject they really know well. Oklahoma, South Pacific, Guys and Dolls, West Side Story and Fiddler On the Roof were great musicals because they mythologized ordinary people. A Chorus Line, 42nd Street, The Producers and Chicago, on the other hand, mythologize figures who are already mythological. David Eisenhower— grandson of Ike, son-in-law of Nixon— once astutely remarked that “journalists aren’t as interesting as they think they are.” Isn’t it time to apply the same observation to entertainers?
To read responses, click here.
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