"All right, Mr. Marshall.  I'm ready for my close-up."

reviewed Sun, 12 Jan 2003

It’s a little glib, and not really fair, to say that Chicago uses the “razzle-dazzle” of its electrifying, stunning production numbers to distract the audience from the relatively bland and workmanlike scenes in between – but I’m saying it anyway.  Because that’s the kind of person I am.  The movie is entertaining, but when you think about it afterwards, when they’re not singing Fred Ebb's clever lyrics and dancing to John Kander's scorching score, there ain’t much there there.  (Like, what's up with how every time the plot stalls, they have another woman kill her husband or lover or whatever?  It’s a wonder any men were left in the city.)  A big step would have been hiring a director more competent and creative than first-timer Rob Marshall – he gets the musical numbers spot-on, as you’d expect given his experience as a theater director, but not much else.

Wide-eyed Roxie (Renée Zellweger) is like a youthful Norma Desmond, except she’s a never-was, desperate for fame, rather than a has-been.  To escape from the unpleasantness around her (her shooting her lover, going to jail, and being tried for it), she envisions grand musical productions.  These snazzy, jazzy numbers, unapologetically stagy and almost all show-stoppers, are the best parts of the movie, and the… uh… unusual casting choices acquit themselves well.  Zellweger has a stronger voice and more fire than you’d think, and her dance teacher deserves accolades.  Richard Gere, as the slimy lawyer famed for getting murderesses acquitted, is also surprisingly good (see, if you have low expectations, you can usually be only pleasantly surprised.  Usually).  But it’s Catherine Zeta-Jones who stands out among the leads:  smoldering, calculating, a more natural dancer and singer than the other two, and with a deft touch for comedy.  (Besides, her ass…ets will enthrall a certain segment of the audience.)

I’d have liked to see more of two supporting players, Queen Latifah and John C. Reilly.  Latifah’s bawdy Mama Morton, the prison matron, seems badly underused (come on, give her more than one musical number!), and Reilly, always good as the long-suffering, naïve schlump, reveals unexpected talents in his touching solo, “Mr. Cellophane.”

(Gee, I remember the good old days when Miramax promoted independents and foreign films that weren't made for Americans.  As a measure of how far they've fallen, here's an interesting tidbit I learned from an Entertainment Weekly article about Chicago:  Harvey Weinstein "pushed hard" to cast Britney Spears in the brief role of Go-to-Hell Kitty, arguing that Spears could do some new pop song to add to the soundtrack album.  Thank god he was talked out of it.)

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