Tag Archives: bob fosse

Master Class

It looks like Dustin Hoffman will be directing Maggie Smith, Tom Courtenay, and Albert Finney in Quartet. The script will be written by Ronald Harwood, based on his play. I’m so excited I don’t know what to do with myself.

Set in a retirement home for musicians, the stage version of Quartet tells of Reginald, Wilfred, and Cissy, a group of former opera singers, who along with Jean, a newcomer to the home, set about preparing a gala concert in honor of Verdi’s birthday. I’ve never seen the show, but I’m sure it contains a goodly amount of bittersweet good-old-daysing; the kind everyone today seems to be engaged with, in some form or another.

Speculation aside, we can be certain that Quartet, directed by one of the greatest actors in the world, will star three of the greatest actors in the world (review John Schlesinger’s Billy Liar to brush up your Courtenay), with a script by Harwood, one of the greatest dramatists in the world. I suggest you search your search your local internet for a credit roll, but I can’t miss the opportunity to single out his adaptations of The Pianist, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (no easy gig, that), The Browning Version (The Figgis/Finney version, far better than the Anthony Asquith/Michael Redgrave of 1951), and of course, The Dresser, which provided Finney and Courtney with some of the most succulent acting opportunities of their career (not to mention Eileen Atkins as Madge, who delivers the kind of life-capping, career-summarizing statements that just about every mid-level show business employee might take as their motto: “No, I haven’t been happy. Yes, it’s been worth it.”) I told you I was excited.

It all brings to mind a terrific documentary, a clip of which I’ve included above. To watch Tosca’s Kiss, Danie Schmid’s 1985 film of the residents of Milan’s first nursing home for retired opera singers (founded by Verdi himself in 1896), is to sit in the front row of the world’s greatest magic show, and watch – dumbfounded, if you’re me – as a group of elderly artists are transformed into previously lost, younger versions of themselves in the space of an aria, or a trembling, impossible-to-sustain high note. They’re both the magicians and the white rabbits.

As film and theatergoers, we know firsthand what joys performers can bestow upon an audience, but rarely are we privy to the private ecstasies they offer to themselves, the reasons why they do what they do. Pop psychology has its own reasons, but no textbook theory is expansive enough to match Schmind’s wordless inquiry into the stage artist’s heart and mind. It’s All That Jazz if Bob Fosse lived into his eighties.

Backstage films like All About Eve are good on struggle, the sweat and greasepaint and thankless effort, and today, with Hollywood cynicism at an all-time high, there’s no shortage of behind-the-scenes misery. But what about the good? How does it feel to nail that moment on stage? What kept Albert Finney’s “Sir” (in The Dresser) coming back, year after year, as the theater was crumbling in the midst of an air raid? Tosca’s Kiss. It shows how art sustains the artist, even after the spotlight has been taken away. Perhaps Quartet will too.

Did I say I was excited?

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What’s the Matter? Don’t You Like Musical Comedy?

No, of course you don’t.

At least not if you’re a serious person. Sure, it’s okay to dabble in it from time to time, to see a Broadway show when you’re in New York, or, if it happens to be on T.V., watch one of those old MGM musicals just to say you’ve seen it. But would you ever say you liked it? Would you ever say you loved it? Well, no. Not publicly you wouldn’t.

Don’t worry, I get your logic. All those clambakes and hayrides, they seem so ridiculous. Especially when life is full of so many problems. When people lose their money, get sick, go crazy, get divorced, and die, what’s there to get plucky about? And they do die every day, some horribly, and not in the Technicolor fields of Brigadoon, but all alone in fluorescent-lit hospitals with warm Jello dribbling out of their mouths. Some don’t even make it to hospitals.

And then there’s surrey with a fringe. Where’s the reality in that?

Thanks to All That Jazzwhich turned thirty this month, we can have our Jello and eat it too. Easily the last word (to date) on the American movie musical, Bob Fosse’s autobiographical, metaphysical, meta-musical slip into showbiz semi-consciousness addresses non-believers head-on, taking everything we once thought impossible to sing and dance about, and turning it into song. Not that Fosse was the first to marry the great white way and the wild blue yonder (think of “Dancing in the Dark” and “Let’s Face the Music and Dance”), but he most certainly was the best.

What else would you expect from the man who, from the time he was a kid, lived his whole life either on a stage or within shuffling distance from one?

Fosse’s life, without a doubt, was a cabaret. But watching the film, we might wonder, where does that leave us? What does All That Jazzhave to do with those of us who spend our time, so to speak, in the audience? Well, to quote Fosse’s surrogate, Joe Gideon, “sometimes I don’t know where the bullshit ends and the truth begins.”

Happy birthday, All That Jazz.