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- Herausgeber: John Wiley & Sons
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
A History of the American Musical narrates the evolution of the film musical genre, discussing its influences and how it has come to be defined; the first text on this subject for over two decades, it employs the very latest concepts and research.
- The most up-to-date text on the subject, with uniquely comprehensive coverage and employing the very latest concepts and research
- Surveys centuries of music history from the music and dance of Native Americans to contemporary music performance in streaming media
- Examines the different ways the film musical genre has been defined, what gets counted as a musical, why, and who gets to make that decision
- The text is written in an accessible manner for general cinema and musical theatre buffs, whilst retaining theoretical rigour in research
- Describes the contributions made to the genre by marginalized or subordinated identity groups who have helped invent and shape the musical
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Seitenzahl: 815
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1 Overture
Music and Dance in Early America
The Development of American Theatre
The Rise of “American” Music
American Musical Theatre
2 You Ain’t Heard Nothin’ Yet
Sounding Out the Competition: Technological and Industrial Influence on Filming Musical Performance
On with the Show: Theatrical Influence on the Film Musical
Beyond the Blue Horizon: Early Film Musical Experiments
Other Voices: Minoritized Groups and the Emerging Film Musical Genre
Am I Blue? US Volatility in the Late 1920s
3 Face the Music and Dance
Blah Blah Blah: The Slump
A New Deal in Entertainment: Berkeley to the Rescue
Sweet Mysteries of Life: The Production Code
Out of the Red and Over the Rainbow: Surviving the Depression
Swing High, Swing Low: Blending/Competing Musical Styles
4 Singing a Song of Freedom
Off to See the World: Musicals Prepare for War
All Out for Freedom: Musicals Help Deal with the War
Who’s a Yankee Doodle Dandy? American Diversity in the Wartime Musical
5 There’s Beauty Everywhere
Musicals under the Classical Hollywood Studio System
Freed in the Classical Hollywood Studio System
The Freed Unit Style
6 Something’s Gotta Give
Jumping on the Band Wagon: The Ascendancy of Integration
“And then I wrote …”: Enshrining the “American Songbook”
It’s Always Fair Weather? Postwar Anxieties
7 Bustin’ Out All Over
Love Me or Leave Me: The Breakup of the Studio System
In My Own Little Corner: The Arrival of Television
To Get the Public to Attend a Picture Show: Competing with Television
High as an Elephant’s Eye: The Epic Broadway Adaptation
8 In a Minor Key
Don’t Fence Me In: B Musicals of the 1930s and 1940s
Don’t Let Them Turn Our Love Song Turn Into a Blues: Marginalized Communities and Film Industries
Don’t Knock the Rock: Exploitation Musicals in the 1950s
9 The Sound of Money
W(h)ither? Rock and Film, 1960–1965
Hello, Folly! Blockbuster Musicals, 1965–1970
Born to Be Wild: Rock and Film, 1965–1970
10 Whistling in the Dark
The Conventional Integrated Musical in an Age of Not Believing
Phantoms of Paradise: Rock and the Backstager
Life as a Cabaret: Deconstructing the Musical
Conclusion
11 Can’t Stop the Music
Stayin’ Alive: The Music Industry and the Film Musical in the Late 1970s
Cinematic Boogaloo: The Impact of Music Video
12 Just Like Scheherezade
A Whole New World: The New Disney Animated Musical
God Help the Outcasts: Musicals in a Multicultural Era
Don’t Stop Believin’: The Musical on Television and Beyond
Index
End User License Agreement
List of Illustrations
Chapter 01
Figure 1.1 An advertisement for a minstrel show (ca. 1840), arguably the first particularly American form of theatrical musical entertainment, with white performers in blackface singing “Ethiopian melodies” or “coon songs.”
Figure 1.2 Florenz Ziegfeld, Broadway producer extraordinaire. Famous for his
Follies
revues, he also produced landmark “book shows” such as
Show Boat
, which premiered in 1927.
Chapter 02
Figure 2.1 Eubie Blake plays his “Fantasy on ‘Swanee River’” to showcase Lee de Forest’s Phonofilm process in 1923, displaying not only the synchronization of sound to image, but also the limited dynamic acoustic range of the equipment.
Figure 2.2 Al Jolson launches into “Toot Toot Tootsie” in
The Jazz Singer
(1927), directly addressing the camera and asserting his eminence as a star.
Figure 2.3 Anita Page, Bessie Love, and Charles King give their all performing the title number of
The Broadway Melody
(1929), helping engender an entire subgenre of backstage musicals.
Figure 2.4 Director Ernst Lubitsch generates such momentum through editing and the sounds of a chugging locomotive that it does not seem odd for Jeanette MacDonald to suddenly burst forth in song, singing “Beyond the Blue Horizon” in
Monte Carlo
(1930).
Chapter 03
Figure 3.1 A prime example of a Busby Berkeley overhead shot, turning the bodies of chorus girls into a kaleidoscopic pattern in the title number from
Dames
(1934).
Figure 3.2 Nothing sexual happening here. Under the strictures of the Production Code, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dance out their attraction to each other in “Cheek to Cheek” from
Top Hat
(1935).
Figure 3.3 Shirley Temple cuddling with one of her many on‐screen “daddies,” James Dunne, in
Bright Eyes
(1934).
Figure 3.4 Uncredited African American performers jitterbugging the Marx Brothers and the other white lead characters right off the screen in “All God’s Chillun Got Rhythm” from
A Day at the Races
(1937), a number which won an Oscar for Best Dance Direction.
Chapter 04
Figure 4.1 Carmen Miranda and Don Ameche musically celebrate the “Good Neighbor Policy” in the opening number of
That Night in Rio
(1941).
Figure 4.2 The Oscar‐winning James Cagney and company pay tribute to “That Grand Old Flag” in
Yankee Doodle Dandy
(1942), a musical biography of composer George M. Cohan.
Figure 4.3 Pin‐up favorite Betty Grable becomes a member of the Women’s Army Corps, leading a unit in an extended military cadence in the conclusion of
Pin‐Up Girl
(1944).
Figure 4.4 A representative moment of the comedic anarchy and the queer implications of buddies in World War II musicals. Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, leaning in to kiss a vanished mirage of Dorothy Lamour prepare to lip‐lock each other in
Road to Morocco
(1942).
Chapter 05
Figure 5.1 The songwriting team of Arthur Freed (standing) and Nacio Herb Brown (at the piano) in
The Songwriters Revue
(1929), before Freed became a producer of some of the most well‐remembered film musicals of all time.
Figure 5.2 Judy Garland sits at a window and laments musically about “The Boy Next Door” in
Meet Me in St. Louis
(1944), helping shift the musical genre to a focus on integrating song, dance, and narrative.
Figure 5.3 Frank Sinatra, Betty Garrett, Jules Munshin, Ann Miller, Gene Kelly, and Vera‐Ellen joyously prepare to go “On the Town” in
On the Town
(1949), an example of the number of musical performers under contract at MGM during this period, and of the importance of the group dynamic in Freed Unit musicals.
Figure 5.4 Fred Astaire dancing in slow motion to “Steppin’ Out with My Baby” in
Easter Parade
(1948). The Freed Unit placed great emphasis on exploring uniquely cinematic methods of presenting dance.
Chapter 06
Figure 6.1 The influence of the MGM Freed Unit musical is plain to see here, as Jeanne Crain performs “It Might as Well Be Spring” in 20th Century‐Fox’s
State Fair
(1945). Compare this shot to Figure 5.2.
Figure 6.2 Danny Kaye, as the famed storyteller in
Hans Christian Andersen
(1952), prepares the audience for the type of extended ballet sequence found in a number of musicals after the success of MGM’s
An American in Paris
(1951).
Figure 6.3 Mario Lanza performs “Vesti la Giubba” from
Pagliacci
in
The Great Caruso
(1951), one of the most successful of the musical biopics that proliferated after World War II.
Figure 6.4 Tomboy Doris Day on the verge of tears as the title character in
Calamity Jane
(1953), demonstrating the pain caused by the pressures to conform to postwar gender expectations.
Figure 6.5 Frank Sinatra demonstrates his disdain while singing “The Lady Is a Tramp” at a seated Rita Hayworth in
Pal Joey
(1957).
Chapter 07
Figure 7.1 Julie Andrews mirrors the television audience, enjoying the pleasures that come from sitting at home “In My Own Little Corner” in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s version of
Cinderella
(1957).
Figure 7.2 Johnnie Ray, Mitzi Gaynor, Dan Dailey, Ethel Merman, Donald O’Connor, and Marilyn Monroe (along with a bevy of chorus girls) fill up the CinemaScope frame in the finale of
There’s No Business Like Show Business
(1954).
Figure 7.3 Shirley Jones listens to Gordon MacRae extol the virtues of “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” in
Oklahoma!
(1955), with the Todd‐AO widescreen process seeming to take in half the western United States in the background.
Figure 7.4 Puerto Rican Bernardo (George Chakiris, far left) faces off against the Jets, a white gang, in
West Side Story
(1961). The film’s musical portrayal of gang violence and racial tension won multiple Academy Awards, including Supporting Actor for Chakiris.
Chapter 08
Figure 8.1 Gene Autry, Republic’s top star of the 1930s, singing “Moon of Manana” in
South of the Border
(1939). Autry’s popularity spurred a slew of other “singing cowboys,” even at some of the major Hollywood studios.
Figure 8.2 Lena Horne performs in the “race movie” short
Boogie Woogie Dream
, which was filmed in 1941 but released in 1944 after she had become a star at MGM.
Figure 8.3 Chuck Berry doesn’t need elaborate production design to mesmerize an audience as he performs “You Can’t Catch Me” in
Rock Rock Rock
(1956).
Figure 8.4 Elvis Presley gets the MGM treatment: a production number surrounds him as he sings the title number in
Jailhouse Rock
(1957).
Chapter 09
Figure 9.1 Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon enjoy an endless summer with their young, white pals in
Beach Blanket Bingo
(1965).
Figure 9.2 A camera hovers over The Beatles to capture their joy and liberation, while “Can’t Buy Me Love” blares joyously on the soundtrack in
A Hard Day’s Night
(1964).
Figure 9.3 A camera hovers over Barbra Streisand to capture her ecstasy and determination in the iconic conclusion to “Don’t Rain on My Parade” in
Funny Girl
(1968).
Figure 9.4 A bouncing ball encourages the film viewer to join with the swell of concert attendees who are singing along with Country Joe’s “Fixin‐to‐Die Rag” in
Woodstock
(1970), exemplifying how the film blurs the distinction between performer and audience.
Chapter 10
Figure 10.1 Tevye (Topol) is suddenly far far away from his daughter and her prospective suitor as he goes into a musical reverie in
Fiddler on the Roof
(1971). Singing has now become an interiorized solitary thing rather than something that is shared with others.
Figure 10.2 Ann‐Margret wallows in soap suds and baked beans (and earns an Oscar nomination for Best Actress), metaphorically representing her vain attempts to overcome the guilt she feels about her “deaf, dumb, and blind” son in
Tommy
(1975).
Figure 10.3 Tim Curry as Dr. Frank N. Furter leads the rest of the cast of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
in “Don’t Dream It—Be It.” A campy deconstruction of horror films and musicals, this number is obviously not the typical aquacade that starred Esther Williams.
Figure 10.4 Liza Minnelli performs “Mein Herr” in
Cabaret
(1972). This pose epitomizes the way director/choreographer Bob Fosse isolates body parts to express a sense of alienation: Minnelli’s extended left foot seems totally disassociated from the rest of her.
Chapter 11
Figure 11.1 John Travolta’s working‐class Brooklynite finds release and success on the disco dance floor in S
aturday Night Fever
(1977).
Figure 11.2 Nothing homosexual happening here. The Village People fling their assorted silvery spangles with maximum flair while doing “The Milkshake” in
Can’t Stop the Music
(1980).
Figure 11.3 Performers of color, like Michael “Boogaloo Shrimp” Chambers (left), Adolfo “Shabba‐Doo” Quinones (center) and rapper Ice t (in the far back), had greater onscreen opportunities in musicals produced by smaller film companies, such as Cannon Films’
Breakin
’ (1984).
Figure 11.4 This freeze‐frame from the climactic dance audition of
Flashdance
(1983) reveals that it is not Jennifer Beals spinning, but male dancer Richard “Crazy Legs” Colón (note the moustache).
Chapter 12
Figure 12.1 The music swells in the penultimate moments of
Beauty and the Beast
(1991) as the two main characters admit their love for each other. The resurrection of Disney animation in the 1990s also helped revive interest in the musical genre.
Figure 12.2 Ritchie Valens (Lou Diamond Phillips) and his brother Bob (Esai Morales) chase each other up the hill to success in the musical biopic
La Bamba
(1988), directed by El Teatro Campesino founder Luis Valdez.
Figure 12.3 Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman declare their love amid the spectacle of a Bollywood‐influence production number in
Moulin Rouge!
(2001), spurring renewed live‐action musical film production.
Figure 12.4 Julia Stiles’ ballet students learns some street moves from Sean Patrick Thomas in
Save the Last Dance
(2001), presaging a slew of similar “dance movies.”
Figure 12.5 Chris Colfer, Amber Riley, Jenna Ushkowitz, Lea Michele, and Cory Monteith (left to right) proudly power through “Don’t Stop Believin’” in the pilot episode of the TV series
Glee
(2009).
Guide
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Free and Easy?
A Defining History of the American Film Musical Genre
Sean Griffin
This edition first published 2018© 2018 Sean Griffin
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The right of Sean Griffin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with law.
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While the publisher and authors have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. It is sold on the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services and neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for damages arising herefrom. If professional advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional should be sought.
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Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the work done by so many others in this field—particularly to the trailblazers: Rick Altman, Jane Feuer, and Richard Dyer. Their foundational work has been ably supplemented by so many others, and I have attempted to give credit to as many as possible throughout the following pages. In particular, I wish to thank Steven Cohan, Adrienne McLean, and Desirée Garcia, three people with whom I have spent much time talking about musicals and who have impacted my thinking broadly and deeply. I also wish to thank the research staff at the Cinematic Arts Library at USC, the Special Collections Library at UCLA, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences Margaret Herrick Library for their assistance on this project over the years. I am also grateful to Southern Methodist University for providing funding so I could travel to these institutions, and to the faculty and students of the Division of Film & Media Arts for their encouragement and support. I would also be remiss if I did not thank my longtime editor and friend, Jayne Fargnoli, who did not hesitate when I proposed tackling this project. She has guided me through so many projects, and I am indebted to her beyond measure. I am also indebted to Drew Casper, whose course on the musical genre at USC back when I was a Masters student gave me the first sense that perhaps I wanted to become a film professor. Much love to my family and friends, particularly my husband Harry, who sat me down and made certain I watched The Apple (1980), and to both my Mom (who dutifully went to see All That Jazz [1979] with me because it was rated R and I was not 17 yet!) and my Dad (who instilled my love and respect for films at a very early age). And lastly, to all those who have been involved in the creation of the films and television celebrated herein—a toast to your imagination and determination.
Introduction
“Today, there is no single definition even of what constitutes a musical, period.”
—Ethan Mordden1
What is a musical? When I teach a course on the musical film genre, the first thing I do the first day is ask students this question. I do not bring lecture notes to this first class session, because the entire class time is spent trying to agree on a definition—and the question is left open and looms over the rest of the semester. Over the course of writing this book, I have often asked friends and acquaintances over cocktails or dinner what they think a film musical is. Although there are common concepts that carry across people’s reactions, I am constantly intrigued by the range of opinions. I do not judge who is right and who is wrong, but I often like to play devil’s advocate—either coming up with an example of a movie that I know they will not think fits the definition they just voiced but that they will agree is a musical; or, conversely, coming up with an example of a film that does fit their parameters, but I am pretty certain they will not think is a musical. The conversations often get pretty heated, but in a fun and friendly way, leaving people mulling over the boundaries of the category “musical” more than they thought was possible.
Such a question has nipped at the heels of those writing about the musical film for ages, leading to the quote by musical theatre historian Ethan Mordden that opens this introduction. Barry Keith Grant, in The Hollywood Film Musical, admits in his Introduction that “the definition of the film musical is a matter of some debate.”2 Clive Hirschorn’s The Hollywood Musical attempts to be encyclopedic in its overview, aiming “to be as complete a record of the genre as possible, but it clearly was essential, very early on, to establish workable guidelines as to what constitutes a ‘musical’ … I remain painfully aware that there will always be room for disagreement.”3 Ethan Mordden’s own history of The Hollywood Musical includes an entire chapter called “What’s a Musical?,” and Richard Barrios’s A Song in the Dark: The Birth of the Musical Film also contains a chapter entitled “Is It a Musical?”4 A number of articles foreground this conundrum, such as Richard Dyer’s “Is Car Wash a Musical?,” Andrew Caine’s “Can Rock Movies Be Musicals? The Case of This Is Spinal Tap,” and Jane Feuer eventually asking “Is Dirty Dancing a Musical, and Why Should It Matter?”5 The title of this volume is taken from a 1930 MGM movie that also begs this question (Figure 1). The film contains three songs and one reprise—and the first song is not introduced until a half hour into the picture. Many would consider the picture to be a comedy, particularly due to its star, Buster Keaton.
Figure 1 Is this a musical? Trixie Friganza looks on as Buster Keaton gets crowned in the comic operetta being filmed by the characters in Free and Easy (1930).
Snapshot taken from: Free and Easy (1930).
A central tenet of this book is to explore those limits, and I am purposefully, almost tauntingly, inclusive. It is quite possible that some readers will start to get downright argumentative at certain points, such as one student who said, “If you are going to try to tell me that 8 Mile (2002) is a musical, we are going to have to take this out into the hall.” If the following chapters elicit that reaction, then I have accomplished my mission. Why? I feel that the musical genre has been hampered for generations with a limited and limiting definition, one that has led to what I feel is an erroneous conclusion: that the film musical genre is dying or dead already. Jane Feuer recognizes the prevalence of “speaking of ‘the musical’ as if it were a static structure, a hygienically sealed system free from the lint of changing audience tastes and of those historical transformations other forms seem to endure.”6
On an elemental level, musical films center around and focus predominantly on the performance of music and/or dance.7 To leave it at this seems far too broad to many, and my expansive list of possible candidates for the genre emerges from the reliance on this clear‐cut condition. Rick Altman, in his landmark work The American Film Musical, certainly felt so, writing that “critical work on the film musical continues to depend on a definition provided largely by the film industry itself … a film with music, that is, with music that emanates from what I will call the diegesis, the fictional world created by the film.”8 He then argues that this is an unwieldy definition, “that every conceivable film with diegetic music [must then be] accepted and treated as a musical, from Gilda to Singin’ in the Rain, from Hallelujah to The Lady and the Tramp [sic], from Paramount on Parade to Woodstock, from the films of Shirley Temple to those of Elvis Presley.”9 The seeming intention of this list is to incite incredulity in the reader that all of these movies could be considered musicals, and Altman moves on to establish criteria to limit the corpus of films. Yet, if Altman rejects the self‐proclaimed authority of the film industry over matters of genre, then the self‐proclaimed authority of the critic must come under scrutiny as well. If someone regards any or all of the above movies as musicals, who is Altman (or myself) to tell that person she or he is wrong?
I do agree that it is possible to parse this basic statement a bit further. In centering or focusing on the performance of music, there is the expectation that the viewer will be entertained or take pleasure from that performance. Many have suggested that such pleasure comes from the sense of music and dance as a form of heightened expression—that song lifts beyond ordinary speech, that dance expands movement of the body past the everyday motions. A common canard in discussing musical theatre is that “when the emotion becomes too strong for speech, you sing; when it becomes too strong for song, you dance.”10 In a certain way, song and dance present a sense of liberation from the normal constraints of existence. We enjoy watching performers accomplish those feats of liberation (remarkable singers, gifted dancers), vicariously experiencing that liberation ourselves.
Yet, while song and dance entice as moments of emotional and/or physical release, music and choreography are highly structured art forms. Music is written to a certain rhythm and organized according to a set of particular patterns. For example, the common rhythm of an American popular song in the first half of the twentieth century was a cycle of four beats, or four beats per measure, and songs were typically set at thirty‐two measures: eight measures for the first verse, eight measures for the second verse (which was very like but just slightly different than the first verse in melody), eight measures for the bridge (a new melody), and eight measures for the concluding verse (a return to original melody, but often with a unique flourish to indicate the end of the tune). Similarly, lyrics had to match the structure of the melody, usually setting up a pattern of rhyming in the first eight bars that would carry through the rest of the piece (abab followed by cdcd, for example, or aaab followed by cccb). Dancers also needed to learn how to perform certain steps, to put them into particular combinations—and to have the dance match the music being played. Such established formats give artists a foundation to build upon, and give audiences a sense of comfort in recognizing (however unconsciously) how the structure works rather than feeling confused and alienated by something strange and unknown.
Thus, the entertainment or pleasure of experiencing music and dance performance is a delicate, ongoing balance between the comfort of structure and the joy of liberation. A number of songs, dance routines, and plotlines of musical theatre and cinema hew so closely to the established patterns that they become tedious. On occasion, some do the polar opposite, trying so hard to do something new and different that it creates a sense of bewilderment in audiences. (At times, audiences find what was new and strange has become less threatening because time has helped them grow accustomed to these new structural ideas.) The largest percentage of songs, dance routines, musical theatre productions, and musical films work within the accepted parameters, but with specific planned moments that push or go beyond the usual boundaries: a singer hits an unexpected high note, a lyric piles on multiple internal rhymes at a key point in the song, the dancer accomplishes a breathtakingly new move. They bend and expand the possibilities of the format, but without breaking it—or, to put it another way, using music terminology: theme and variations. Amy Herzog, in Dreams of Difference, Songs of the Same: The Musical Moment in Film, focuses on “this contradiction, between the sameness of the identical repetition and a movement toward transformation, difference, and excess.”11 Intriguingly (for my purposes), she asserts at the outset that she is “not interested in establishing film distinctions between musical and nonmusical films” and that “the majority of the films [she] reference[s] … push the boundaries of the musical canon.”12
The need to negotiate between freedom and order runs parallel with a common issue in discussing the musical genre: the relationship between the musical number and the narrative. The requirements of the plot and the ecstasy of the musical performance need to be merged somehow seamlessly in order for the whole piece to work. Sometimes the narrative is about the struggle to successfully perform the numbers—thus the numbers are the goal of the narrative. Another strategy is to have the characters feel so deeply moved that they shift from speech to song, from walking to dancing. Another strategy pushes this last idea to its farthest point: where there is no distinction between narrative and number and the entire story is sung and danced without any spoken dialogue and/or non‐choreographed movement.
Many have used the narrative/number dichotomy as an entry point for a more specific definition of the genre, with the narrative providing structure and the number providing liberation. The narrative functions as the “real world,” and many musicals follow a very tried‐and‐true set of plot clichés (boy meets girl, the show must go on, etc.). In counterpoint, the numbers are usually outside normal logic, presenting the audience with a sense of utopia (as Richard Dyer has famously put it), liberated from constraint and want.13 Taking from Dyer, Barry Keith Grant asserts that “film musicals typically present their song—and/or—dance numbers in an imaginary space, even if this space is ostensibly a real location, and contained within a narrative framework,” and Martin Rubin defines a musical as “a film containing a significant proportion of musical numbers that are impossible—i.e., persistently contradictory in relation to the realistic discourse of the narrative.”14 Yet, exactly who gets to determine when a “real location … contained within a narrative framework” crosses over into an “imaginary space,” or how many “impossible” numbers constitutes “a significant proportion” is left unspecified.15 Perhaps the best example of an imaginary space or an impossible number happens in what Ian Conrich and Estella Tincknell call the “musical moment”: “an isolated musical presence in a non‐musical film.” Yet, in order “to recognise the breadth and diversity of music’s role in cinema,” they do not give a particular definition of where the dividing line is between a musical and a “non‐musical.”16
Rick Altman considers the “dual‐focus narrative” to be a foundational element to the musical film.17 Whatever the environment or plotline, musicals almost without exception strongly revolve around a romance (almost exclusively heterosexual even today). Altman argues that unlike the usual Hollywood film, which focuses on a central protagonist, musicals alternate between the two characters as they gradually become one couple. As such, the two usually represent diametrically opposed backgrounds or belief systems, and it is only when those larger philosophical differences are resolved that the couple can come together (in a similar vein, it is not until the couple resolves differences that the show they are putting on can become a success). One is royalty, the other is a commoner; one is intellectual, the other is a hedonist; one is a Yankee, the other hails from the deep South. By introducing the courting pair with different outlooks and goals, the dual‐focus narrative pits the dreams of liberation of one character in seeming opposition to the other’s. One person would find their joy and freedom at the expense of the other. So, the desire to come together (the comfort of a shared structured relationship) comes into conflict with the desire for individual freedom. Just like the basic aspect of the musical (the entertainment in how musical performance somehow expresses liberation within a structured context), the plot must figure out how each individual (and his or her supporters) must fulfill their individual dreams and successfully bring people together. The farmer’s happiness (raising crops) comes at the cowman’s expense (no room for herding cattle)—and vice versa … but, as Oklahoma! asserts, “The farmer and the cowman should be friends …”
Revolving around this dichotomy of liberation versus structure, the rights of the individual versus the needs of the community, the musical genre has similarities with the themes many have analyzed in relation to the Western genre.18 Writers have pointed out a central negotiation between the lure of the frontier and the value of civilization. The frontier is open with possibility, unshackled by laws or social demands, but it is also dangerous, primitive, and untamed. The coming of civilization is thus welcomed, but with a certain sense of melancholy in a loss of freedom. The key figure in most Westerns is a loner figure—someone who rides in to defend the town and ensure civilization is established, but who is not considered a member of the community and usually rides off into the sunset (i.e., the frontier) once order is restored. Thus, somehow both sides are revered and respected. Both the Western and the musical balance between championing the freedom of the individual and endorsing the comfort of community ritual.
The rights of the individual and the needs of the community are also foundational tenets in the founding of the United States of America—fighting for the rights of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” but recognizing the value in bonding together as a nation to win that fight. The Western genre has been long regarded as a genre tied to American national identity. Similarly, Rick Altman’s “Coda” at the conclusion to the anthology The International Film Musical points out “the importance of American films for both the widespread popularity and the widely accepted definition of the musical.”19 Of course, American musical theatre was, and continues to be, influenced by the cultures of other nations. Furthermore, many other countries have longstanding traditions of music‐oriented filmmaking and theatre. As such, the same questions over genre crop up in Altman’s “Coda.” Under a subsection titled “Just What Is a Musical?,” he asks, “Do fans of the Brazilian chanchada think of musicals in the same terms as viewers of the Mexican comedia ranchera? Do habitués of French realist singers or the films of René Clair employ the same definition of the musical as lovers of the films of Herbert Wilcox or 1930s stage stars? Is the Portugese fado defined in the same way as the Japanese salaryman film?”20 These films, reflecting their own cultural concerns, might not feel as focused on the balance between freedom and structure, between the individual and the community. Yet, the global reach of American popular music and Hollywood cinema has resulted in an international familiarity with how the United States has developed a form of musical theatre and musical film—so much so that a number of films made in other countries adopt the patterns and themes of the American musical.
The balance between the individual and the group is a major issue not only on stage or on screen, but also in the making of musicals. Collaboration is key in creating a musical. Composers and lyricists must establish a compatible working relationship. The two of them work in conjunction with the author of the libretto (or book), as well as the choreographer, the director, and the producer. Performers need to meet the requirements of the production—often having to learn how to blend voices, or dance as a unit. A number of Hollywood musicals, commonly referred to as backstagers, depict the need to form a strong‐knit community in order to put on a show. The obstacle to such bonding is often the ego of a particular individual. The history of the musical itself can be told as the story of people in different creative positions jockeying for dominant artistic control, asserting that they should have the freedom to express their individual creative vision, and everyone else should follow. Producers such as Florenz Ziegfeld or Walt Disney asserted that they were the leaders. Stars such as Al Jolson or Barbra Streisand claimed the spotlight around which everything else was built. Songwriters, particularly Rodgers and Hammerstein and their progeny, gained an upper hand by claiming that their scores unified projects into cohesive wholes (an argument that gained momentum when many of them became producers as well). After World War II, a number of choreographers began taking on the role of director, such as Jerome Robbins and Bob Fosse, and made arguments similar to songwriters: that they were the glue that pulled all of the elements together into a tightly organized piece.
The musical film represents the resolution of these two basic but seemingly contradictory tenets of the American psyche as a form of utopia. Yet, like the struggles between artists collaborating on a production, conflicts over who and what was considered American have been ongoing. The population of the country is a combination of different cultural heritages and community identities. Over the centuries, various groups were demeaned and excluded from being considered American—along with aspects of their culture (including their forms of music and dance). The dominant culture (white, European, male) worked consistently to promote its customs and artistic taste as authentically American, and those from minority communities were considered either inferior subcultures or alien. A strong counter‐argument began developing during the 1800s that a uniquely American culture formed out of the blending of these various cultures. A further counter‐argument developed to the celebration of the American “melting pot”: that assimilation into the dominant culture only exploited and diluted the cultures of the disempowered, and oppressed communities should maintain their individual traditions. Jane Feuer has famously pointed out that “the Hollywood musical becomes a mass art which aspires to the condition of folk art,” in order to mask the process of exploitation and commodification in the production of musical films.21
American musical entertainment has been involved in these discussions from the very beginning, coming up with different formulas in response to shifts in the population and the effects of various historical events. Musical entertainment could reinforce established patterns of belief towards racial minorities, women, and individuals who would eventually be categorized as homosexual. Yet, these same marginalized people were able to use musical entertainment for their own benefit—providing a unique opportunity to break free (however limited in time and scope) from the usual restrictions placed upon them in daily life. Their performance of new and unique types of music and dance gave them a great amount of attention from and influence on the dominant culture, thus helping shift attitudes and challenge stereotypes. In celebrating individual freedom and championing the value of a community, minoritized artists and audience found a genre that supported the concept of a community united in diversity.
As social, economic, and even technological circumstances changed, the musical genre evolved in how it defined America, defined utopia, and defined how best to combine the ecstasy of liberation with the pleasure of structural familiarity. American music and dance changed across the generations: from the folk song to ragtime to jazz to rock to rap, from the quadrille to the time‐step to the Charleston to the Twist to the moonwalk. The recognized structure of live musical theatre also shifted over the decades: vaudeville to loosely structured book shows to integrated musicals to concept musicals. Yet, somehow, at a certain point, the evolution of how people defined the film musical genre stopped. Currently, historians and the average moviegoer employ a structure that became dominant right after World War II, and that definition has not been able to shift since: the integrated musical where dialogue alternates with song and dance that arises within the context of the storyline (i.e., singing when individuals should be talking, dancing when they should be walking), revealing aspects of the characters and/or advancing the plotline. I am not attempting to argue that films that fit this pattern are not musicals—but there are so many other ways of celebrating and focusing on musical performance that do not match this description. Many histories of the film musical describe the late 1920s and the 1930s as a sort of infancy for the genre, exploring various ways of presenting musical performance before the genre finally matured into its proper correct format in the mid‐1940s. These histories thus report that the rejection of the integrated film musical by most audiences at the end of the 1960s resulted in the collapse of the genre as a whole. Such an assessment may explain why there has not been a new historical survey of the genre in many years: why bother writing anything if there is nothing new to report?
A central aim of this volume is to argue that there has been far too much emphasis on the comfort of the familiar structure of the integrated musical, and not enough celebration of liberation from that definition. For, whether or not critics or general audiences care to admit it, the film musical has survived ably, by evolving into new patterns and structures regardless of attempts to keep it locked in place. This book asks the reader to open him‐ or herself up to the potential excitement of a new regard for the film musical, to enjoy the variety of forms the genre can take rather than keeping myopically attached to one specific formula. Musicals can be integrated narratives, but they might also be concert films. Or filmed opera. Or animated cartoons. Or biographies of musicians. The Jazz Singer (1927) has more in common with 8 Mile than you might imagine! The Wizard of Oz (1939) and Woodstock (1970) are kindred spirits. On the Town (1949) and Straight Outta Compton (2015) are arguably just points on a continuum rather than utterly estranged from each other (Figure 2). The farmer and the cowman should be friends, I’m just sayin’…
Figure 2 Is this a musical? Ice Cube (O’Shea Jackson, Jr) certainly seems to be “putting on a show” in Straight Outta Compton (2015), a biography of the rap group N.W.A.
Snapshot taken from: Straight Outta Compton (2015).
Notes
1
Ethan Mordden,
On Sondheim: An Opinionated Guide
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 29.
2
Barry Keith Grant,
The Hollywood Film Musical
(Malden: Wiley‐Blackwell, 2012), 1.
3
Clive Hirschorn,
The Hollywood Musical
, 2nd ed. (New York: Portland House, 1991), 9.
4
Ethan Mordden,
The Hollywood Musical
(New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1981), 17–23; Richard Barrios,
A Song in the Dark: The Birth of the Musical Film
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), 309–322.
5
Richard Dyer, “Is
Car Wash a Musical?
,”
In the Space of a Song: The Uses of Song in Film
(New York: Routledge, 2012), 145–155; Andrew Caine, “Can Rock Movies Be Musicals? The Case of
This Is Spinal Tap
,”
The Shifting Definitions of Genre: Essays on Labeling Films, Television Shows and Media
, ed. Lincoln Geraghty and Mark Jancovich (Jefferson: McFarland & Co., 2008), 124–141; and Jane Feuer, “Is
Dirty Dancing
a Musical, and Why Should It Matter?,”
The Time of Our Lives: “Dirty Dancing” and Popular Culture
, ed. Yannis Tzioumakis and Sian Lincoln (Detroit: Wayne University Press, 2013), 59–72.
6
Jane Feuer,
The Hollywood Musical
, 2nd ed. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993), 87.
7
Grant, 1, uses a similar starting definition: “films that involve the performance of song and/or dance by the main characters and also include singing and/or dancing as an important element.”
8
Rick Altman,
The American Film Musical
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), 12.
9
Altman,
American Film Musical
, 13.
10
For example, see comments by Ben Wattenberg in a discussion with a variety of musical theatre artists for his PBS program
Think Tank
(transcript can be found at
http://www.pbs.org/thinktank/transcript1261.html
).
11
Amy Herzog,
Dreams of Difference, Songs of the Same: The Musical Moment in Film
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010), 2.
12
Herzog, 2–3.
13
Richard Dyer, “Entertainment and Utopia,”
Movie
24 (Spring 1977).
14
Martin Rubin, “Busby Berkeley and the Backstage Musical,”
Hollywood Musicals, The Film Reader
, ed. Steve Cohan (London: Routledge, 2002), 57;
Grant
, 1.
15
Rubin, 57.
16
Ian Conrich and Estella Tincknell,
Film’s Musical Moments
(Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2006), 2.
17
Rick Altman,
American Film Musical
, 16–58.
18
See Robert Warshow, “Movie Chronicle: The Westerner” (1954) in
Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings
, 6th ed., ed. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 703–716; Will Wright,
Six Guns and Society: A Structural Study of the Western
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975).
19
Rick Altman, “Coda—The Musical as International Genre: Reading Notes,”
The International Film Musical
, ed. Corey Creekmur and Linda Y. Mokdad (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012), 258.
20
Altman, “Coda,” 258.
21
Jane Feuer,
Hollywood Musical
, 3.
1Overture: Musical Traditions before Cinema
Although the film musical celebrates a sense of liberation, the genre is itself beholden to a long heritage of music composition and performance. Thus, to start a history of the musical film with the making of The Jazz Singer (1927)—or even the earliest sound experiments—would be incomplete. Many writers on the film genre have examined the influence of live American theatrical entertainment.1 Like those works, this opening chapter will survey the stage traditions that shaped what would be done on celluloid. Yet, the film musical’s history requires more than acquaintance with musical theatre’s history; it also necessitates some basic awareness of the history of American music at large, going back to before the United States had formed as an independent nation.
The musical film would inherit centuries of material and mindsets, laying out a number of well‐established aesthetic as well as industrial and social patterns. In addition to showing how much the past would bear upon what the musical film would or could do, the history of American music is itself rife with examples of battles between freedom and control, oscillating between music as an example of individual expression and music as a type of communal bond. Various religious and political forces attempted to stifle certain forms of music and/or dance, usually over their perceived ability to liberate sexual desires. As a nation of multiple communities, various cultures mingled and sometimes clashed over each other’s musical tastes. Achieving individual freedom of musical expression often came at the expense of others, most obviously in regard to racial or ethnic minority groups. As an industry formed around music, composers, performers, and publishers often struggled with each other over who was in control of the music. The musical film would not only take on many of the idioms established from earlier eras, it would also inherit these cultural negotiations and battles. Central to these interactions is the quest to define a national identity—what exactly did it mean to “be an American,” and how did its music reflect this new nationality? Primary to an emergent American identity was the importance of individual liberty—but how could people come together as a national community by championing one’s independence?
Music and Dance in Early America
Rhythm, melody, and movement have been intimately tied to a sense of community and shared outlook on the world since the first instances of human civilization, and thus it is no surprise that they figured strongly within North America long before the United States declared its independence from Great Britain. Song and dance were fundamental elements to the wide variety of indigenous cultures. As with numerous other groups, music holds special importance in Native American rituals and ceremonies, vital practices that bind individuals together. Since most of these cultures relied almost exclusively on oral communication, song was also used to maintain historical memory, as well as to share tribal myths and legends. The importance of the oral tradition has remained through the centuries—and, if anything, increased as various communities were threatened (and many extinguished) with the advent of the white man. Along with the spoken word, song became a vital method literally to keep culture alive. Thus, there has grown enormous responsibility to preserve these songs and stories.
The absence of written evidence obviously requires a lot of conjecture in analyzing native cultures prior to contact with European explorers and settlers. Yet, studies tend to agree on certain patterns.2 For example, certain figures within communities took on special roles as the keepers of the stories and of the songs. While there was pressure from within the groups to remember and repeat the tales and the structure of the songs, it was inevitable that singers and storytellers would (either intentionally or not) vary the words, the organization, and the melodies across time, and from generation to generation. Without written notation, music was thus controlled primarily by the singer. Most surviving instances of native North American music also strongly emphasize rhythm rather than melody, which allows the singer greater freedom to vary the notes from performance to performance. Lastly, when used in ceremonies or rituals, such music often went on for hours. The emphasis on rhythm over melody was tied to such uses—but also led to long and repetitive pieces. Such repetition could etch melodic patterns into community memory, but could also allow for variation as the repetitions continued.
When Europeans began settling on the east coast of North America, many regarded native tribes as primitive and animalistic, and branded their music as “heathen.” Influenced by the Reformation, many early settlers attempted to forsake “sins of the flesh”—and thus as a rule regarded secular music as morally corrupt. Sacred music, on the other hand, was considered a unique method of speaking to God—and in this way, hymns paralleled music used in native rituals that helped individuals feel their interconnectedness to the rest of their community and to all of nature. Illiteracy was still incredibly common, particularly among those not of noble birth or part of the emerging bourgeoisie. Thus, as with the oral tradition in native cultures, most hymns were learned by ear. These early settlers either failed to recognize or purposefully ignored the similarities between native use of music and their own investment in music.3
Religious communities were not the only ones arriving on North American shores from Europe, and those settlers brought with them varied traditions of music making and dance from their homelands. The sense of rhythm, harmony, and melody structure differed from that in Native American cultures, and a history of “serious” music had also instituted a method of written notation to ensure a composition would remain the same each time it was performed. The rise of notated “classical” music increased the authority (and reputation) of the composer over the musician or vocalist, giving rise to renowned figures such as Bach, Handel, and Mozart.4 Such attitudes would cross the Atlantic as musicians performed these works, or as composers used the same methods in creating their own works. Even churches started printing up collections of hymns for use at services. Further, the development of written notation—sheet music—would create a method to sell music, forming what would eventually become a major entertainment industry by the start of the twentieth century. Yet, the oral tradition still existed. In contrast to classical music, often commissioned and performed for nobility, folk songs among the working‐class or peasant communities were shared at gatherings or at taverns, and still privileged the singer over the songwriter (so much so that the authors of these tunes are largely unknown).5
Another important source of musical heritage came with the arrival of Africans to the continent, most of them as slaves. The music of the African nations held much in common with that of Native American communities: rhythm‐based and passed from generation to generation orally rather than in written form. Of course, captured and taken against their will, Africans transplanted to American shores were able to bring precious little but themselves and what they were able to hold in their memories. Hence, the oral tradition was practically the only option available to them in maintaining a connection to their heritage. Responding to the situation, slaves of African descendancy learned how to use music not only to hold onto their sense of self but also to survive in a hostile environment. The form of “call and response,” in which a song acts as a dialogue between people, became a key method for slaves to bond with each other and to communicate with each other in ways their white European owners did not recognize. Call and response then was used as a method of resistance, including at times helping organize means of escape. Also, while creating a cultural bond, call and response emphasizes the talent and creativity of the individual performer involved, that each particular instance is unique and will never be sung in the exact same fashion again. It must be noted that singing among the slaves had its benefits for slave owners too. Not only did such singing provide entertainment for them, it also let owners know where slaves were even when they were out of sight.6
As the settlements became colonies and then states, these various forms of music encountered and interacted with each other, creating a variety of blends and influences. European styles of music dominated, since white Europeans and their progeny sat at the top of the power structure within the United States. Yet, the various cultures (and the people themselves) were bound to intermingle, no matter how hard some may have attempted to keep them separate. The Louisiana port of New Orleans serves as an apt example.7 The mixing of European, African, and Native American blood resulted in a new identity termed Creole (although attempts to distinguish a racial hierarchy within that term still happened). Growing into a major city, New Orleans also began developing a vibrant and unique type of music, drawing from a variety of sources: French opera (since it began as a French settlement), other European popular songs courtesy of traveling sailors, plus Native American music and slave music. This type of mélange would result in styles of music unique to the United States.
Dance evolved along similar patterns. If music was potentially devil’s work for religious settlers, dance definitely was too sensual and of the flesh. Hence, dancing was routinely forbidden, and one of the ways Native Americans were demonized as sinful heathens by these Christian fundamentalists was the way natives danced for hours in tribal gatherings. While European settlers tended to regard Native American dancing with curiosity and reprobation, their form of dance functioned largely the same way as did their music, as a way of maintaining and passing on ritual beliefs, myths, and history. Dance was as much a form of communication as music and, as such, did contain at least a basic structure (even if it was incomprehensible to the white explorers who witnessed it).
Of course, not all Europeans shunned dancing, and as others came to America they brought not only their music but also their styles of dance. Just as serious European music was put down on paper in order to maintain control over any performance of it, respectable social dance in Europe was highly structured, with specific steps to learn and repeat: gavottes, rounds, and so forth. Such structure helped a roomful of people dance fluidly as a group, but also helped quell the potential liberating qualities of dance that churchgoers feared. Such free joyous exhilaration could be found in many of the folk dances popular across Europe, used in village celebrations or at the local tavern. Jigs, clog dances, and the like brought people together as much as did the strict rules of a cotillion, but with less structure and more energy.8
Slaves from Africa attempted to preserve the style and meaning of dance in their home cultures, but often faced resistance from their masters for doing so. While owners found value in the performance of call and response among slaves, native African dancing seemed too akin to the way Native Americans danced, which was regarded as sinful, anarchic, and potentially violent. Choreographer Leni Sloan, in the documentary Ethnic Notions (1986), describes how African American slaves reacted to a prohibition on dancing by shuffling their feet in a manner that cunningly skirted the law’s definition of dance. White viewers found amusement in such movements, seeing this shuffling as evidence of the primitive nature of people of African descent. Eventually white performers began to copy and exaggerate those movements, creating perhaps the first national dance craze, “Jump Jim Crow,” in the late 1820s.9 Thus, just as with the music, the intersection of the various forms was beginning to create a style of dance unique to the new nation, and one developed out of the power dynamic between freedom and control.
