Chicago (2002)

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The film adaptation of John Kander, Fred Ebb, and Bob Fosse’s popular stage musical Chicago has a lot going for it charismatic stars, gorgeous production design, sublime costumes, and a handful of show stopping numbers. But there’s less here than meets the eye. In the words of one of the trio’s seductive songs, “Throw ’em a fake and a finagle They’ll never know you’re just a bagel Razzle-dazzle ’em And they’ll beg you for more!” And while Chicago is not that dire, it is a pallid shadow of its stage self. For all of its seductive trappings, as entertainment it is merely adequate.

The film’s tale is a thin one, the 1920s story of two toxic jazz babies in the Windy City who hope to turn tabloid notoriety into show business stardom. The more talented of the pair, Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones), breaks up her vaudeville sister act when she shoots her sibling and husband dead after catching them practicing the horizontal tango. Roxie Hart (Renée Zellweger), a dreamy wannabe with more ambition than talent, plugs her lover to punctuate an argument and then tries to get her meek husband, Amos (John C. Reilly), to take the fall. Now both Velma and Roxie are in jail awaiting trial, with only prison-matron Mama Morton (Queen Latifah), their roguish lawyer, Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), and the press to lean on in their time of woe. But with only so much newspaper ink to go around, Velma and Roxie are at war, aware that one false step would not only cost them fame, but likely lead to the gallows.

Chicago is not a traditional musical in which the characters warble at one another. Instead, Velma, Roxie, and the rest address the audience directly, a breaking of the fourth wall that filmmakers are loath to attempt. Screenwriter Bill Condon (Gods and Monsters) solves the problem by using Roxie as the conduit for much of the story, showing not only her reality but also her fantasies, which re-imagine her situation in glamorous set pieces.

In theory, the device should work beautifully. But under director Rob Marshall’s hand, the two parts simply don’t flow together, and the movie often feels stage bound. While the fantasy sequences offer some truly sublime moments particularly Mama Morton’s playful “When You’re Good to Mama,” Billy Flynn’s manipulation of a marionette Roxie in “We Both Reached for the Gun,” and Billy’s “Razzle Dazzle” tap dance they stick out in a narrative that never quite gels.

More problematic is Marshall’s handling of the dance sequences. He cuts into steps mid-motion, isolates movements, and often undercranks the camera, which leads one to speculate whether the principals were not quite the hoofers they’ve been advertised to be. It’s an odd choice, especially given that Marshall choreographed the numbers himself; one would think he’d want the audience to truly appreciate his work, but that’s impossible.

While not quite as pronounced as Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, the attention deficit disorder visual style here is more detrimental. It serves a few of the numbers, but it completely destroys others, most noticeably “Cell-Block Tango.” What should have been a showcase for Zeta Jones and five other dancers to strut their stuff instead becomes a highlight reel for editor Martin Walsh.

So, with all of its missteps, is Chicago worth it? In a word, yes:

The Kander-Ebb tunes are infectious, Dion Beebe’s cinematography is a gorgeous confection to behold, and Zeta Jones and Zellweger are lethally alluring in Colleen Atwood’s glorious costumes. While Gere’s presence might make viewers wish Marshall had tapped the actor’s more musically talented Cotton Club co star Gregory Hines for the role of Flynn, the actor makes up for his shortcomings with a performance long on ingratiating charm.

Then there’s Queen Latifah in the relatively small role of Mama Morton, she’s so electrifying that, were her part were any bigger, she’d surely run away with the show. Taken together, these things make Chicago eminently watchable and mostly enjoyable, and on a star level, it delivers the goods but it could have been so much more.

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