Directed by Rob Marshall
Written by Bill Condon
Starring Renee Zellweger, Richard Gere, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Queen Latifah
USA, 2002
In the 1950s Hollywood musicals, the philosophy was that people are all essentially good if they can sing and dance. The real villains, like Jean Hagan’s squeaky prima donna in Singin’ in the Rain, don’t have the ability to belt a tune and are, therefore, degenerate.
Chicago returns to this idea. Almost everyone is a sleaze here, but the film ends with a rousing performance by two singers/murderesses, and all sins are forgiven. Forget the men; Chicago is a celebration of America’s love for divas, their relationship with the microphone and the gun, and how even violence can make the media’s girl-power starlets. The most exciting number is the “Cell Block Tango” in which a group of locked-up and limber ladies belt out the reasons why they shot their men. “He had it coming!” they roar. The vigor of their remorselessness drives the film’s sexy rhythm.
As a new addition to the women’s jail, Roxie Hart (Renee Zellweger) competes for the attention of her lawyer (Richard Gere) with Velma Kelly, her flapper-girl idol. Zellweger solidifies herself as one of our brave and wondrous talents, even if her singing is not quite the neat surprise of Michelle Pfeiffer’s in The Fabulous Baker Boys. The usually boring Catherine Zeta-Jones has a growl in her voice and owns her character in a way that only Bebe Neuwirth, the Broadway revival’s actress in 1996, could better. The best performance, however, belongs to the modest, remarkable John C. Reilly, whose good-hearted caricature is the film’s only attempt at sentiment.
The hallucinatory structure of Chicago is more akin to the set-swapping dynamics of the contemporary stage than the classic screen musicals of MGM. What made those films, and even the recent stunner Moulin Rouge, so breathtaking was the adoption of performance as a spasm, an everyday routine stemming from emotion. The privacy of shower singing was brought out into the streets, in front of loved ones and strangers. It’s appropriate that the cynical Chicago would portray music as an outgrowth of money, lust, and the desire for fame.
I sincerely hope Rob Marshall’s solid entry to the ailing genre can resuscitate it, but I fear this affinity for Broadway adaptations and style will become dominant later on. In this regard, Chicago is not particularly inventive, and there’s none of the joy we saw in Moulin Rouge’s daring but divisive quirks. But as a possible savior, and as a work of frequent liveliness and even radiance, it is so very welcome.
By Andrew Chan [JANUARY 11, 2003; ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN THE CHARLOTTE OBSERVER]