adaptation of Broadway musical – The Magnificent 60s

The Bells Are Ringing (1960) ****

You probably haven’t heard of Judy Holliday. She had just broken through with an Oscar for Born Yesterday (1951) when her career hit the rocks after facing accusations of Communist sympathy in the HUAC trials early in that decade. That was the high point of her career and she only made six other movies. The Bells Are Ringing was the last and she died prematurely a few years later.

Holliday was odds-on to play on film the part she had originated on Broadway, and won the Tony for Best Actress (Musical). The musical ran for over two years on Broadway clocking up 924 performances. It was a class act, involving composer Jule Styne (Funny Girl, 1968), lyricists Betty Comden and Adolph Green (Singin’ in the Rain, 1952) and choreographers Jerome Robbins (West Side Story, 1961) and Bob Fosse (Sweet Charity, 1967).

Movie audiences would have heard about the musical and especially if they hadn’t been able to reach Broadway would have salivating at the prospect. Dean Martin (Bandolero, 1968) at that point in his career had lost the top-billing he’d enjoyed as part of the Martin-Lewis comedy partnership and the Rat Pack was yet to make its screen debut, so he was far from the main attraction. If this film was going to work, it depended on Holliday’s performance.

This was also a bit of a swansong for director Vincente Minelli (Gigi, 1958) and he’d only make one more musical, spending the rest of the 1960s knee deep in heavyweight dramas like The Sandpiper (1964). Minelli was a fresh pair of eyes for the musical as he hadn’t been involved in the Broadway show, but he doesn’t do much tinkering with the original set-up. About the only criticism you could make was that it doesn’t break out of the stage settings.

Like many musical confections of the period, the story is lightweight. Ella (Judy Holliday) works in a telephone answering service but becomes too attached to her clients, in particular struggling playwright Jeffrey (Dean Martin). She wants to help clients achieve their dreams.

A couple of subplots get in the way of a happy ending. A vice cop, Inspector Barnes (Dort Clark), is convinced the operation is a front for an escort service. The cop doesn’t spot the actual illegal activity taking place on the premises when music distribution boss J. Otto Prantz (Eddie Foy Jr.), romancing business owner Sue (Jean Stapleton), sets up a gambling racket.

There’s a further complication because Jeffrey thinks the person who answers his phone is 60 years old, so Ella has to use an assumed name to get close to him. But these complexities are of a light, frothy, comedic nature and luckily the star excels in just those departments.

To succeed, a musical needs more than hummable songs, it requires a star. As it happens, the star, if male – as proven by Yul Brynner in The King and I (1956), Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady (1964) and Lee Marvin in Paint Your Wagon (1969) – doesn’t have to even have a good voice or even be able to sing at all (they can talk their way through their songs).

But the voice of the female equivalent has to capture an audience, even if it’s not her own voice and her singing is dubbed. One of the joys of having the Broadway star in your film is the guarantee that she’s using her own voice, she can’t possibly be dubbed on a stage show, and if her voice took a theater by storm it’s going to electrify a cinema.

Judy Holliday has such a voice. But she also has terrific comedic skills. She’s an impressionistic par excellence, inventing voices to go with the characters her clients think they’re conversing with, and she’s wonderful with physical comedy, the flailing of arms and butting of heads. We’re not in Pink Panther territory, but we’re not far off, and director Minnelli has the sense not to over-egg the pudding. There’s a wonderful scene in a restaurant where the climax is her dress catching fire. We see the flames just starting to appear around her derriere. But then we cut to her sneaking into her apartment, hiding the damage.

The songs are terrific. The lyrics work both as interior monologue and identifying dilemma. I’m not sure the score has survived so well as some of Styne’s other musicals, but I found the music very appealing.

The plot works, there’s a happy ending, and the whole effort results in an endearing confection. You won’t go away thinking Dean Martin was going to resuscitate his career but you will wonder why Holliday, even in her brief lifetime, never made more movies.

An unexpected delight.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum (1966) ***

The funniest thing that happened on the way to turning this hit Broadway musical into a Hollywood movie was that composer Stephen Sondheim (Sweeney Todd, 2007), now denoted a legend, was considered such a poor marquee attraction that the producers cut half the songs of the original production, turning the result into more of a comedy with intermittent songs rather than a full-blown musical in the Rodgers and Hammerstein tradition.

Sondheim had an unusual theatrical development, starting out purely as a writer of lyrics – for West Side Story (filmed 1961) and Gypsy (filmed in 1964). He took on the dual roles of composer and lyricist for this one, which made its Broadway debut in 1962 and ran for three years.

You wouldn’t have Zero Mostel, a year before The Producers (1967), down as much of a marquee name either – he hadn’t appeared in a movie in 15 years, and then in only a bit part. But Broadway has its own method of producing stars and he had become a stage headline act and really there were few contenders for the role of a fat middle-aged Roman hustler.

Contemporary audiences will appreciate the actor breaking the fourth wall and talking directly to the audience, but while it was highly unusual at the time, it had the effect of putting the audience on his side. You might not associate Richard Lester (Petulia, 1968) with musicals but that would only be if you excluded A Hard Day’s Night (1964) and Help! (1965) from his portfolio, though admittedly those would hardly be classed as traditional song-and-dance efforts.

The picture was larded with other top comedic names, Phil Silvers of Sgt Bilko TV fame and legendary silent comic Buster Keaton. It didn’t hinder the movie’s prospects that with the phalanxes of nubile young women on show it might have been considered an audition for actresses aiming no higher than the sobriquet of Bond Babe.

What’s perhaps most unusual of all is that this is a sex farce, not a medium at which Hollywood was renowned. Screwball romantic comedy, yes, farce set in a brothel, no. Luckily, it delivers on all fronts. If you want a hint of what Sondheim could bring to the party, there are seven songs to choose from. If you reckon Zero Mostel provides a distinct brand of comedy you would be proved correct. If you were here for the cheesecake it was in abundance. And if you went looking for laffs there was no shortage, pratfalls included.

The story is slight, if complicated. Slave Pseudolus (Zero Mostel) wants his freedom, young swain Hero (Michael Crawford) wants to win the heart of Philia (Annette Andre). All sorts of obstacles get in the way. Since Philia, a virgin slave, has already been sold to a great warrior Gloriosus (Leon Greene), Pseudolus must convince him that the girl has been exposed to a deadly plague and must be hidden away. He is eventually distracted by an orgy and persuaded that the girl is dead. However, when Gloriosus determines to cut out her dead heart, she is suddenly very much alive.

In the tradition of Shakespearean comedy, there are oodles of mistaken identity and the while the narrative twists itself into various contortions to accommodate the sub-plots, naturally, it all ends happily, Philia turns out to be not a slave at all, and Pseudolus walks off with his freedom and Amazonian temptress Gymnasia (Inga Neilsen) to boot.

It’s all very good-natured fun, bordering on the licentious, but steering well clear of the meretricious and anything so off-putting as nudity or sex.

Having conquered Broadway, Zero Mostel now conquers Hollywood, doubling down on his fame next year with Mel Brook’s The Producers. Unlike The Devils (1971), any sign of campness is tamped down, helped along by serious players like Michael Hordern (Where Eagles Dare, 1968) taking their roles seriously. Phil Silvers and Buster Keaton keep the show on the road. Future British television and Broadway musical star Michael Crawford (The Jokers, 1967) shows his promise. In small parts you might spot Ingrid Pitt (Countess Dracula, 1971) and Jon Pertwee, the third Doctor Who.

I didn’t go away humming any of the songs, but they were pleasurable enough and for Sondheim lovers more than enough.

Director Richard Lester proves himself adept at this kind of comedy. Written by Melvin Frank (Buona Sera, Mrs Campbell, 1968) and Michael Pertwee (Make Mine Mink, 1960) from the Broadway production by Sondheim, Burt Shevelove (The Wrong Box, 1966) and Larry Gelbart (The Notorious Landlady, 1962) which took its impetus from the work of Roman writer Plautus.

Good fun.

Bye, Bye, Birdie (1963) ***

Marketeers employ a cute trick to get round the contractual billing required on movie posters. The position and size of a star’s name in any movie – even now – is stipulated long before a single camera rolls. This is where all the “name above the title” malarkey stems from comes from, that stipulation setting the reals stars apart from the wannabes.

However, whoever was in charge of drawing up the standard boilerplate template was only concerned with names, not images. That left a loophole to be exploited. Should you have a female rising star, whose face or figure might be a darn sight more attractive than the top-billed male, well, by heck, there was nothing to stop you plugging the contractually-less-dominant person all over the poster at the expense of the top-billed star.

The marketeers did it with Marilyn Monroe, they did it with Audrey Hepburn, and now they’re stooping to the same loophole to promote Ann-Margret as virtually the only star of any importance. Admittedly, this was before top-billed Dick Van Dyke achieved much of a reputation as a hoofer in such spectaculars as Mary Poppins (1964). But his second-billed female lead, Janet Leigh, whose features the camera had very much taken a shine to, was also elbowed out of poster prominence.

And small wonder. Excepting Monroe, no actress ever in the last decade burst onto the screen with such pizzazz. By the time Bye Bye Birdie – her third movie – opened Ann-Margret’s asking price had zoomed to $250,000 and she had struck a two-picture deal with MGM, was contracted to five for Twentieth Century Fox, three for Columbia and another three for Frank Sinatra’s movie production arm.

So a heck of a lot was in the balance. And, boy, does she deliver. Her energy is untouchable and, excepting again Monroe, there was never a sexier singer.

Shame the musical itself is so trite, at its best in homage to those innocent days of the 1950s, that were a more Technicolor version of those 1940s musicals that invariably were sugary confections. The story rips off the Elvis Presley legend. Conrad Birdie (Jesse Pearson) is a pop singer who has been drafted. Songwriter’s secretary Rosie (Janet Leigh) comes up with a publicity gimmick, Conrad singing a song, “One Last Kiss,” written by Albert (Dick Van Dyke) sung on the Ed Sullivan Show, his last gig before joining the Army, with a specially-chosen gal to be recipient of said smooch.

To fill you in, Rosie has had a tough time getting boyfriend Albert, eight years into their relationship, across the wedding finishing line. Bridie fan Kim (Ann-Margret) also has a boyfriend Hugo (Bobby Rydell) who naturally objects to his beloved kissing the pop singer on air in front of millions even it is a publicity stunt. Meanwhile, Albert’s Mama (Maureen Stapleton) is trying to drive a wedge between Rosie and her son. The out-of-sorts Rosie and Hugo conspire to sabotage the television show.

So pretty much the will-she-won’t-she is delivered in wishy-washy style with the plot (call that a plot!) interrupted every few minutes for a song. The narrative seems out of place for a section involving arrest for statutory rape and racism, but that gives the movie some much-needed muscle.

No question that Ann-Margret (The Swinger, 1966) steals the show. That would hardly be surprising given the lack of competition. But she certainly has the song-and-dance chops, and her energy is second to none. She gets a march on everyone by singing the title number over the credits, the credits themselves very much pushed into the background. The other prospective breakout musical star Dick Van Dyke only has one solo and Janet Leigh (Psycho, 1960) wasn’t going to effect a change of screen persona any time soon.

George Sidney directed from a screenplay by Irving Brecher (Oscar-nominated for Meet Me in St Louis, 1944) and Michael Stewart (Hello, Dolly!, 1969) from the original Broadway hit by Charles Strouse (music), Lee Adams (lyrics) and Stewart (book).

Refreshingly lightweight. Ann-Margret lights up the screen.

Sweet Charity (1969) **** – Seen at the Cinema

Never mind Bob Fosse’s debut, this was unusual for a number of reasons: a hilarious meet-cute, a raft of one-liners and being based on Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria (1957). So it could easily have been remembered mostly as a quiz question. But with Fosse at the helm it was a lot more than the sum of those particular parts and introduced a new-style director whose verve, choreography, stylistic flourishes and adult subject matter had wowed Broadway audiences.

Star Shirley MacLaine (Gambit, 1966) adds another layer to her trademark portfolio of losers in love. Hope Valentine Charity (MacLaine) is overly optimistic given her circumstances, robbed of her savings by her fiancé, nearly drowning in the process, the prospects of her switching from a career as a dance hall hostess severely limited by her lack of formal education and basic office skills.

So it’s just as well that she lands millionaire Vittorio (Ricardo Montalban) and might have enjoyed an indulgent romantic interlude had their evening not been interrupted by his wife Ursula (Barbara Bouchet), Charity condemned to spend a humiliating night hiding in the closet.

A chance meeting with the claustrophobic Oscar (John McMartin), doom-laden and intensely shy, appears to lead to unlikely redemption. Her presence cures him of a bunch of neuroses and marriage is on the cards until reality raises its ugly head, and the movie ends on a surprisingly negative note for a musical.

A dance hall hostess – taxi dancer in the parlance because she is hired by the half hour – is equivalent to the modern laptop dancer except that there is no nudity involved. On the other hand, there is none of the hands-off policy exercised in such contemporary operations, and men buying her time believe that she should accommodate their straying hands. So it’s somewhat unexpected that her colleagues remain so good-tempered and backstage is presented as a bitching-free zone, some accepting their reality, others, like Charity, inclined to the fantasy that a Prince Charming will rescue them.

In terms of song quality it’s not in The Sound of Music (1965) league, boasting only two numbers – “Hey Big Spender” and “If My Friends Could See Me Now” – that you were likely leave the cinema humming. And it certainly suffers by MacLaine not having the voice of a Julie Andrews or Barbra Streisand, or the dance skills of Gwen Verdon who originated the part on Broadway, but otherwise she invests the character with enough believability and exudes charm by the bucketload. She has to be applauded for taking on such a gritty role in the first place.

Of course, the movie belongs to the director, the embryonic Fosse, who brings a new look to the movie musical, from the bored dancers draped in unexpected physical shapes during “Hey Big Spender” to the finger-snapping, angled choreography and the celebration of the seedy, the opposite of the glossier Rodgers & Hammerstein, Lerner & Loew vehicles. A few years later, further acceptance of permissiveness would allow him to explore such worlds in more realistic depth, check out Cabaret (1972) and All That Jazz (1979).

There’s a great turn from Sammy Davis Jr (Ocean’s Eleven, 1960) as a snake-hipped hippie preacher, his appearance somewhat out of place though offering contemporary comment, Oscar taking Charity to this literally underground service because he belongs to a Church-of-the-Month Club.

There’s a goodly number of laughs courtesy of the original Neil Simon book for the musical and the meet-cute of the couple trapped in an elevator is very funny.

John McMartin, in a rare movie leading role, is good as the hapless romantic, Ricardo Montalban (Sol Madrid, 1968) as his opposite, and there’s sterling support from Stubby Kaye (Cat Ballou, 1965), Barbara Bouchet (In Harm’s Way, 1965) and Chita Rivera in her debut.

It was probably too much to ask that this hit the ground running, what with Hollywood in financial meltdown in part as a result of budgetary excesses like this (it cost $10 million), a movie that never quite extended a grip on the roadshow audiences necessary to turn it into a hit, a star lacking an exceptional voice, and a storyline that appeared to alienate musical lovers. Most people who viewed it on initial general release saw a heavily truncated version.

It stands up much better today, mostly thanks to Fosse’s direction, but also due to the sleazy background, and it has to be said, setting aside any vocal deficiencies, this is one of Shirley MacLaine’s best performances.

Of course, I saw it at its best, on the big screen at the Widescreen Weekend in Bradford, so I might be slightly biased, but it does have genuine vigor and a refreshing originality.