CHICAGO (Rob Marshall, 2002)

Reviewed: January 13th, 2003

Chicago is a cheap and plastic vision of humanity, all opportunistic killers and promiscuous men, taking an hour and forty-five minutes to hammer home the now trite statement about celebrity it took Andy Warhol all of one sentence to convey. It's easy to forgive this silly movie though, because we also have two top-shelf performances from Catherine Zeta-Jones and Renée Zellweger, and at least six musical sequences (a.k.a. the ones not featuring Richard Gere, John C. Reilly or Queen Latifah) that are electric and impossible not to enjoy. Poor, Renée. All I hear is how Zeta-Jones, trained in song and dance, blows the miscast Zellweger out of the water. Having now seen Chicago twice, however, I maintain my dissent. First off, Roxie is not supposed to be Velma's stage equal; whereas Velma is a wise and tough star, overflowing with self-confidence, Roxie is insecure ("I don't have an act," she complains even after she's risen to pseudo-fame) and looks up to her worldly and talented prison-mate for nearly half the movie's runtime. Second off, after fine-combing the final sequence -- where Renée and Catherine sing and dance next to each other -- I challenge anybody to a frame by frame analysis in which they demonstrate exactly how and why Catherine's moves are superior (hint: they aren't, as the two women are in perfect sync for the whole scene). My favorite number is Renée's simple ballad to her husband; I'll take her slinky elegance to Zeta-Jones's ferocious leg-kicking any day of the week. Truth is Zellweger holds this film together, finding just the right balance between naiveté and go-getting.

Director Rob Marshall -- grounded in theater, making his motion picture debut -- seems mortified of accusations of staginess, sometimes over-editing the shit out of his film. Early on his vigorous cutting works well enough, adding an excitement to each fantastical musical sequence which is intercut with its reality counterpart, one commenting on the other and vice versa. But the reality/fantasy conceit soon grows old as Marshall resorts more and more to such Film 101 techniques as matching on action. The constant crosscutting pound grows disruptive and nowhere is this more apparent than when Richard Gere's character -- superstar lawyer Billy Flynn -- is clinching Roxie's case, a sequence which is insufferably juxtaposed with Gere tap-dancing. Back and forth and back and forth, nevermind that the idea -- Flynn's legal argument is the verbal equivalent of tap-dancing -- grew old the second time one of Gere's toes touched the ground. By the end of the film I also grew weary of the cynical contempt Chicago holds its audience in. If the movie is to be trusted all of us sitting in the darkened theater are no less shallow than the lecherous twelve-man jury who don't hesitate to steal a glimpse of Roxie's thigh (in unison!) when she lifts up her dress on the witness stand. I'm still waiting for the first great musical of the new millennium.*

*The new millennium began on January 1st, 2001. If you don't understand why, go ask Arthur C. Clarke.

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