Making the Cut

I’m slow, I admit. This may be an old post from Big Hollywood’s John Nolte about West Side Story but eternal truth does it contain. In particular, this:

“Something else you can appreciate is how little the camera gets in the way of the musical performances. Today’s musicals are all editing — chop, chop, chop. “West Side Story” might cut here and there and move the camera a bit, but you are at least allowed to enjoy these remarkable performances without feeling manipulated or cheated. The actors, music, and choreography dazzle, not the post-production”

Spot on.

Over the yuletide there was a BBC special with former ballerina Darcy Bussell re-creating some famous Hollywood numbers by Fred, Ginge, Gene and Cyd. The programme concentrated on the differences between dance in ballet (all stiff backs, glum faces and pointy toes) and dance in musicals (hunched shoulders, loose limbs and comedy props).

Well, Darcy's a game gal and made a rum go of it. But the thing that you really noticed in the resultant dance films was the editing. No machine-gun editing and quick-fire cuts here, there and everywhere. Instead there were long lingering shots where the camera allowed us to watch the dance in full flow.

It’s been said that film editing and choreography are similar in as much as they are both essentially exercises in rhythm. This may be true but too much of one can spoil the other. Too many short, snappy cuts (“chop, chop, chop”) and what you end up with is not a dance but a series of poses. In dramatic terms, it’s like defining a character by a series of attitudes rather than a personality.

But more recent film musicals seem to have caught MTV-itis with their short little spans of attention. In fact, when it comes to editing a dance, the best music videos are of the old school. Just ask Beyonce.

(By the way, all of the above goes for modern action films too.)

A Bit of a Nellie

Forbush, that is. The heroine of South Pacific. Last year I caught the Lincoln Center version at the Barbican and ever since I’ve had Nellie’s song “Cock-Eyed Optimist”, well, let’s just say I can’t get it out of my head:

“I could say life is just a bowl of Jello
And appear more intelligent and smart
But I’m stuck like a dope with a thing called hope
And I can’t get it out of my heart
Not this heart”

Let’s take a look at the details here.

The rhyme scheme is tight: ABCB plus. The plus is the fact that the A rhyme links to the first lines of the other two verses (jello/yellow/bellow) and there’s also an internal rhyme (dope/hope). The rhymes themselves are simple. I imagine Lorenz Hart would have had Nellie playing a ritornello by Ivor Novello on a violincello at this point. But there’s nothing fancy schmancy with Hammerstein.

So what does this add up to? The neatness of the rhyme scheme and the simplicity of the rhymes speaks to Nellie’s neat and simple philosophy: cock-eyed optimism. It's heartfelt but, in truth, Hammerstein is telling us that it’s too neat and too simple; it’s naive.

As for Rodgers, well:

I could say life is just a bowl of Jello
And appear more intelligent and smart

The tune is basically a descending scale. There’s also a lovely triplet wobble on "je-ell-o" which makes light of the sentiment. Nellie ain’t one for pseudo-intellectualism and wouldn't even use the such a silly word. So she makes fun of the idea.

But I’m stuck like a dope

Now the contrast (“But...”), so the musical phrase starts heading upwards. Her optimism is coming through. Again, there are details: the “stuck” literally getting stuck with a shorter staccato note .

With a thing called hope

Rule of three: first phrase (“But I’m stuck”), repeat the phrase (“like a dope”) and then the third time it gets a little extra (“with a thing called hope”), those repeated notes (“thing called”) adding a bit more certainty and confidence. Optimism rising.

And I can’t get it out of my heart

Again, this musical line is basically three repeated phrases, intensified by the D+ chord underneath, as if this idea is going round and round her head.

Not this heart

The final line is more than just a way to end the song. Musically it’s soothing and dreamy. There’s another little wobble note on “he-a-rt”. Nellie’s corn-fed, homespun philosophy is honest but untested. The spine of the plot is how her cock-eyed optimism gets put on trial by the experiences of love and war.

So in four and a bit lines of song a fully-rounded character is revealed to us, moving from playful to hopeful to assertive to dreamy. All the while being lyrically precise, memorably tuneful and dramatically true. Remarkable.

Miss Forbush sets the standards for musical theatre (with a little help from R&H).

The Battle Continues

The Beeb’s recent look at the post-war British musical cast the history in terms of the battle between the West End and Broadway, from early reconnaissance missions (The Boyfriend, Oliver!) to all-conquering imperialism (Cats, Les Miz, Phantom, Miss Saigon).

As ever, it’s the jokes that really get to the nub. Michael Ball recalled standing atop the barricades of Les Miz, earnestly fighting off the anti-revolutionary forces below, when one of his fellow actors turned to him with the tarty remark:

“To be honest, dear, I’m more of a Hello Dolly! man myself”.

And that just about sums up the West End/Broadway musical relationship.

Criticising the Critics

It’s tempting to quote Lance-Corporal Jones: "They don’t like it up ‘em".

So Michael Billington writes a riposte to Big Steve’s assessment of professional critics. He does somewhat misinterpret (deliberately? who knows) Sondheim’s main point which is not that critics are unnecessary but that, for an artist, reading your own reviews – good, bad or indifferent – is never helpful.

Nevertheless the Billington defence is worth a gander. It is essentially this:

1. “Art doesn't exist in a social or economic vacuum”. In other words, if you ask people to pay for a public performance you can expect to get some public comment.

2. “What we all crave is a reaction to our work”. In other words, a bad review is better than no review.

3. In New York, at least, “the dearth of newspapers gives critics a disproportionate authority”. In other words, in Britain, nobody cares what critics say. (I may have misinterpreted this last one.)

Well, in order:

1) True. But do we need professional public comment? Perhaps “need” is too strong a word. Better to say that the variety and choice of professional theatre available creates a demand for a critical discernment of that choice, for which an appropriate remuneration and status can be maintained by one thought to hold such qualities of discernment.

2) True again. But giving in to cravings isn’t always a good idea. Just ask my waistline.

3) Don’t know about New York critics. I suspect, however, that for the fortunes of most musicals, word of mouth is the ultimate authority.

My own feeling is that 1) is the only real justification for a professional theatre critic. Critics are essentially Which? reviewers advising us on what washing machine to buy. Nothing wrong with that. It can be done well or done poorly. But its significance is mainly to washing machine buyers (i.e. the audience) rather than manufacturers (i.e. the artists).

Bowie, Rimes and Higgins

An unfounded story about a possible David Bowie musical (made up, apparently) has prompted this post by Tom Ewing on the Guardian website:

“Not all jukebox musicals succeed, but enough do that we're unlikely to see an end to them yet. What's the appeal? On one level, it's nostalgia, but more fun and creatively silly than the average tribute band. But there's also something compelling in the idea of turning songs we love into stories”

I’d agree with nostalgia. But what about the stories bit?

“The main problem is that narrative and pop don't always mix. Pop music is a thing of bottomless power when it comes to nailing a mood or a moment, but songs that fit into stories often have to move them along”

Is this true? Yes and no. Songs that fit into stories don’t always move the action along. But they should have some inherent movement. In My Fair Lady, when Professor Higgins realizes that he loves Eliza in “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face”, he’s not really moving along the action. Quite the opposite in fact, he’s “nailing the mood” (not, I’d guess, a phrase that Higgins himself would use. More likely “dawdling in a moment of self-awareness” or some such). But the mood has movement: it comes about as the result of particular characters and events and has implications for what's going to happen to those characters. The song is part of a story.

Mr. Ewing stumbles onto something else in his last paragraph:

“One of my most thrilling experiences this year was first hearing the hardcore band F***ed Up's Queen of Hearts – a song full of big dreams…But on repeat listens I paid more attention, and the dispiriting spectre of narrative crept in. Who were the "David" and "Veronica" in the song: why should I care?”

Now I've no idea who Fudged Up are or what a hardcore band sounds like but this observation does speak to one of the big differences between pop/rock and theatre songs, a difference highlighted by Jennifer Toksvig in what must be one of the most interesting things ever written about lyrics. One of her points, if I've understood it correctly, is that pop lyrics tend towards a universal emotion (like the “big dreams” of the Queen of Hearts song) so that we, the listener, have the opportunity to fill in the specifics from our own experience. Theatre lyrics, on the other hand, already have the specifics of the story and the experiences of the characters (like the “David and Veronica” of the Queen of Hearts song) and so must find the universal therein.

To put it another way, LeAnn Rimes can sing a song like this:

“How do I live without you? I want to know

How do I breathe without you if you ever go
How can I ever, ever survive

How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?"

All well and good. Big, generic emotions expressing how you feel about someone you love. Everyone can think of their own loves and sympathise with poor LeAnn. But sing it as a character in a story and you’d assume the woman is nuts.

A character requires more specific characterization. So Professor Higgins, being emotionally cold and stubborn and arrogant (and, well, English) is more likely to express the feeling thus:

“Her smiles, her frowns
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now
Like breathing out and breathing in…
I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face”

No doubt David Bowie said it his way too.

Could Musicals Turn Young People On To Opera?

No.

I’m tempted to leave it there.

But the question is explored further by Laura Blumenthal. It’s not that young people dislike music theatre:

“In fact, there's a real appetite for lavish productions with a constant stream of music. They're called musicals”

The issue is our old friend that we know so well, “familiarity”:

“Familiar stars, from TV and pop. Familiar songs, in the form of the jukebox musicals that have proliferated in the wake of the success of Mamma Mia!. Familiar plots, either from shows that remake films – Ghost, Shrek, Legally Blonde – or get a second wind when they are turned into films themselves, such as Chicago.”

The problem with this line of thinking is that popularity breeds familiarity but the reverse ain't necessarily true. For every Mamma Mia, there's a Beach Boys-Billy Joel-Rod Stewart attempt at theatrical greatness that never made it. Familiarity isn’t sufficient to get down with the kidz.

Secondly, opera could play this game too, if it so wished. How about “Titanic - the Opera”? Complete with a playlist of opera favourites and Russell Watson and Kathryn Jenkins playing Leo and Kate (or the other way round). Would it work? Maybe, maybe not. But if you think that all ya need's a bit of "familiarity", it would be an option.

The fact that it’s unlikely to happen is down to the variant histories of the two forms. Opera has traditionally been at the patronage of Kings, Emporers and taxpayers. Musicals were forged in the cut-and-thrust commercialism of Broadway. If opera wants to attract a young audience it needs more than a plot about Facebook. It needs, fundamentally, to entertain (and not just the young).

In the meantime, musicals should not serve as opera’s appetiser.

The Second Greatest Idea for a Musical Ever?

Yeah, baby.

The Greatest Idea for a Musical Ever?

Surely this has to be it.