Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band - THE MOVIE!

Why were so few musicals made during the '70s and '80s? Because producers had either forgotten the crucial elements of a Wonderful Musical or they found themselves unable to pull those elements together.

First off, here's my impromptu list of required elements in a musical:

1. Excellent performances from ALL the principal characters. They must be able to sing and dance (or at the very least warble and move to basic choreography). But "acting ability" is also at the top of the list, as it should be in any film...just because it's a "musical" doesn't mean you don't need to "act."
2. Excellent songs. Not just well-written but well-performed too.
3. Enthusiasm. You just can't sell a musical unless you look like you MEAN it.
4. Interesting set-pieces.
5. Professional back-up dancers.

Think of the movie musicals that SUCCEEDED in the '70s and '80s. They contain all of the above elements. And even the ones that didn't succeed and subsequently became cult favourites (Phantom of the Paradise, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Tommy) had killer songs and performers who -- even if they weren't top-notch -- still behaved like they were putting EVERYTHING into it. Paul Williams couldn't act but he was still fun to watch. The Rocky Horror cast fell back on theater experience (and heels) to "sell" themselves. Ann-Margaret...well, got doused in soap suds, beans, and chocolate. How many actresses would put up with that, with Ken Russell probably flashing his genitals behind the camera at the same time?

The musicals that DIDN'T succeed tended to lack this CRUCIAL enthusiasm, and I believe this is because they were "committee" efforts that were trying to cash in by bringing in the NEWEST stars and the NEWEST fads. They put "stardom" above "acting ability" and "chemistry. "The Wiz" and "Xanadu" were largely overshadowed by their gimmicky concepts: "Diana Ross in a funky urban remake with Michael Jackson" and "rotoscoped Newton-John on roller-skates with animation by Don Bluth, and oh yeah, the Tubes," respectively.

But the only thing more embarassing than watching Gene Kelly in a giant pinball machine is paying careful attention to 1978s "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band." It has the requisite well-written songs and the professional back-up dancers, but those two bonuses only highlight how awful everything else is.

It goes without saying that Peter Frampton and The Bee Gees don't belong here, and I don't mean in an "isn't Diana Ross awfully old to play Dorothy?" sort of way. I mean that they're unsuited to the music and that they cannot act. They sound insecure and they look insecure, in every scene, all of the time. They're the main characters in the film but they CANNOT deliver enthusiasm...they're too busy remembering not to look at the camera. Nothing spoils a sad, pivotal scene more than the Gibb brothers tidying up their receeding rock-star hair in a funeral procession.

George Burns comes in second as Most Unsuited to his role. As Mr. Kite he actually does quite well, but when called upon to sing "Fixing a Hole" with small children, my goodness...if you only watch ONE thing in the movie, WATCH THIS. In case you missed it, here's his inspired contribution to the songwriting of Lennon and McCartney, painfully transcribed from the DVD:

"Oh one and-a two... one two three, da-dah, bah, bah, ba-ba-ba-bah, bah, bah,
ba-ba-buh-bah... dee-dee, dee-dee, dee-doo, dee-diddly-diddly-diddly ...and
one...two. One...two..."

This "white man scat" comes with dance steps that the children can remember but he can't.

So we've got iconic songs that are gorgeously written, being performed by bloodless disco hipsters or bloodless non-singers (don't be surprised that I'm lumping Donald Pleasance in the second category). It doesn't help that the song production is anemic, perhaps George Martin's revenge for all those years he didn't get any credit. Sometimes the performances ARE good, though...Dianne ("who?") Steinberg is the one bright light as an actress, singer, and sufferer of a pre-movie bikini wax. Billy Preston's "Get Back" is inspired, though the scene itself was obviously shot after the filmmakers ran out of money. Aerosmith kicks butt (even if they get beaten up by The Bee Gees...SERIOUSLY) and Sandy ("WHO?") Farina also had some talent behind her rabbity overbitten face. And even though Steve Martin can't sing, he at least LOOKS like he's having fun.

What does that leave us? The set-pieces, while obviously expensive, look like they were cut out of a cheap pop-up book. You have the king of toilet jokes (Frankie Howerd) managing to turn "When I'm Sixty-Four" into a naughty little number. Not to mention the cheesy '70s sex routine, which means Robin Gibb going pop-eyed and falling over when presented with raunchy women wearing Parliament's cast-offs (Stargard, AKA "WHO???").

At least "Sgt. Pepper's" has the professional back-up dancers. They're REALLY the best part of the movie. Don't watch the principal characters, just look at the people dancing around behind them. Pay particular attention to "The Computerettes," two professional ballerinas in creepy outfits who sing like the Bee Gees filtered through a vocoder.

To give credit where credit is due: Steinberg and Paul "Cousin Kevin" Nicholas singing "You Never Give Me Your Money," Barry Gibb's "A Day in the Life," and Farina's "Strawberry Fields Forever" are all gems. And, honestly, the scriptwriters have done a pretty good job of making a coherent, clever, child-friendly plot out of a bunch of disconnected (and often mystically drug-inspired) songs.

It's also worth it for the "slice of the '70s" scene at the end, featuring an esoteric collection of people who worked closely with The Beatles at some point in their careers (but mostly Carol Channing fluffing her words).

And hey, who's that near the back? It's Marcy Levy! And to think I drank booze and did a flygirl dance with that woman!

Good Ambassador

Ho Ho! Ha ha! Hey Hey!

Pardon me another video clip (though if you're reading this in a normal way, this will actually be the FIRST video clip for the night).

If you didn't grow up in Canada during the early '90s, you totally missed Mitsou. There's a definite disconnect between Quebec and the rest of the country, but somehow Mitsou broke down the barriers, representing everything that English Canada (also known as "Muffy") thought Quebec SHOULD be: fashionable, cute, happy, and not overtly Catholic. And occasionally English.

I'm older now so I recognize that things are more complicated, but I'll never get over my love for Mitsou, and particularly not this song, "The World is a Funny Place," written (very obviously) by Ivan Doroschuck (of "Men Without Hats"). This is one of my favourite drag songs, and it always charms the single person in the crowd who actually remembers it.

Last Week, This Week...

As I struggle with everything and all things, somehow "Bad Ambassador" by Divine Comedy makes me feel comfortable. I know I've posted it before but here it is again, because it makes me feel good.

Socio-political Drag-Queening

Suffering through the herky-jerkiness of post-bar boozing, let me TRY to describe tonight's moment of horrible revelation.

There I am in the bar, wearing another crotchy outfit, my intention to thwart the bad boys who arrive to pick up the cheap girls. I'm thinking: here I am, a plague, a negative thing, something which makes girls feel good and boys feel bad. Crotch, feathers, silliness. You bastard crappy men.

Then I speak to Rachel. At the video bar, she's sitting down and alternating water and alcohol. She starts off in the usual way: "I love your outfit, I respect what you're doing." So I move in to feel good and to try to be a little bit humble.

But then she says the Important Thing, which completely changes my impression of the night: "If I wore that outfit, people would think I was a slut."

I can't belive this: NOBODY HAS EVER SAID THIS TO ME. Fifteen years of doing drag -- silly, over-sexed girl drag -- and no female has ever explained to me that *I* am able to do something that SHE cannot do. She goes further: "When people look at you wearing those clothes, they say you're adventurous and fantastic. If I were to wear those clothes I'd just be a slut."

And holy cow...RACHEL IS RIGHT. Sitting there, drinking her water, without being accusastory or vicious, she has told me something I have NEVER REALIZED. I can't even begin to explain how this affects my personal idea of "what I'm doing." I can stand here and criticise women for being "over-sexed," meanwhile wearing a ridiculous outfit that no girl in the bar would ever THINK of wearing. Because I can be "odd" while she'd just be "sleazy."

Why am I wearing my outfit? To thwart the men. But what do the WOMEN think when they see it? I'm sad to say that I've never thought about it. "Duh," say the females I ask. "Of course, I could never get away with wearing something like that." They feel too fat or too thin or too conservative or too desperate, and there I am just NOT CARING.

Sigh.

Weighing In & Getting Kicked Out

My hostessing never went further than handing out cheese and Ritz crackers at my parent's parties. But I've always wanted to be the perfect hostess, and I have always fantastized about an actual JOB as a hostess. I think such a job would be wonderful because I'd get to meet lots of strangers without needing to actually spend much time with any of them.

To improve my party skills I bought Betty White's "Teen-Age Dance Book" (1952). Besides teaching you how to cha-cha-cha, it also provides tips for dressing, dating, and party organization.

There are far too many gems in the book for me to present them all at once, but here's my personal favourite: Betty White rhetorically asks "Wouldn't you like to try some new ideas for admission to a Dance instead of the usual 'Tickets please at the door'?" One of her ideas is sure to catch on in any social group...it's called "Weighing In."

If you can borrow the school scale, you can have fun weighing your guests upon their arrival at the Dance. Those weighing above a specified number of pounds agreed upon by the Committee could be charged for the price of admission. Guests whose weight falls below that number could be admitted free. Or just the opposite.

Because EVERYBODY wants to be publically weighed before a dance.

Betty and I can't turn you into the perfect Dance guest overnight, but I can leave you with her list of strict prohibitions, which she entitles "NEVER, NEVER, NEVER."

• Chew gum at a dance.
• Slouch while sitting or sprawl legs.
• Remain seated while being presented to an older person.
• Cross a dance floor. (Go round the outside.)
• Leave a girl standing on the floor.
• Create a scene (in emergency request the assistance of a host, hostess, or chaperone).
• Indulge in "horseplay," sliding, or running.
• Be inattentive or unco-operative while the hostess runs a mixer.
• Slight one person in order to dance with another.
• Serve yourself with refreshments before looking out for others.
• "Court" or indulge in awkward "holds" while on the floor.
• Become a dance exhibitionist.
• Criticize your partner's dancing.
• Doodle on the furniture or play with decorations.
• Join the dance without acknowledging hostess.
  

The Spoken Film

I'm going through the back issues of The New Yorker chronologically, and they've finally gotten to "The Jazz Singer." The magazine's movie critic makes some interesting statements in the October 15, 1927 issue:

With a first-night audience clapping and bellowing with joy at the end of his first picture, at the Warner Theatre, Mr. Al Jolson stepped to the front of the stage with a tear in his eye and said he was glad they liked it. The film was "The Jazz Singer" and probably nobody liked it much... The shouting was about Mr. Jolson and the Vitaphone. I have said a lot of unpleasant things about the Vitaphone, but all my words are eaten.

The Vitaphone was a record carefully synced up with a reel of film; the record and the film played simultaneously, and the sound was amplified and played into the theatre. It was (at the time) the most effective way of syncing film and audio together, but it took two years before Warner Brothers found the right way to apply the process.

One limitation appeared to be that the sound needed to be "dubbed" by the performer, instead of recorded live at the same time as the filming. So it wasn't deemed practical to recall actors to re-speak their lines and try to sync them with the original film recording. Perhaps this was more complicated because the idea of "dialog" in a movie was an extremely loose one; the actors often ad-libbed (or babbled) during the filming, relying on the subtitles to tell the story.

For this reason it was probably considered more practical to only use the Vitaphone when exact synchronization wasn't necessary.

Previously, the film critic for The New Yorker had mentioned those applications for the vitaphone: playing marching music when the soldiers march home on-screen, for instance, or playing the sound of a motorcycle during a slapstick chase scene. But audiences accustomed to silent films found these intrustions noisy and weird.

It took "The Jazz Singer," with its musical interludes, to strike a comfortable balance and open the door to a new concept. And it took Al Jolson to perfectly dub his singing and his dialog into the Vitaphone.

That evening will probably turn out to be an epochal one in the history of the movies, for questions were answered and questions were raised. True, the speaking movie is not so new; but hitherto it has been a novelty without much grip. Now it has shown what it can do... An article in a recent Variety mentions spoken sub-titles, but that will not prove to be enough. In "The Jazz Singer" after the singing, or after a short bit of dialogue, the silent mouthings of the characters seemed flat and silly. A new and fertile field of writing, acting, and directing is in view, with possibilities that can hardly be guessed. Will the spoken film have to aim at two audiences, the metropolitan and the rural, instead of one as now?--and consequently make two separate types of pictures, one for the city people and one for those in the country?

He's correct that audiences would no longer be satisfied with the "flat and silly" silent films, but he's actually wondering if "metropolitan" audiences would remain loyal to silent films and "rural" audiences would demand the spoken film. This says something about either the snobbishness of "metropolitan" audiences...or, more likely, the snobbishness of film critics.

TAXES!

I resist doing my taxes because they consist of two hours of labour followed by some kind of bad news. We could at least be REWARDED for suffering through this ordeal, but to PUNISH somebody for finishing their taxes is pure sadism.

I have a splitting headache, a cramp in my hand, a facial tic, cold feet, an upset stomach, Morgellons disease, and a $550 debt to the government. I've never needed to pay this much before...it seems to be due to the Ontario Health Premium. If my $550 results in somebody getting timely cancer treatment then it's all worth it. Couldn't the last page of the T1 form have a picture of a smiling child in remission?

Après-Midi d'un Phone

We continue to unravel the mysteries of "The French Phone," using only New Yorker magazine as our guide. In the October 15, 1927 issue we get more details about Bell's telephone monopoly, and also finally learn the REAL name of the French Phone:

The French type of apparatus is increasingly popular. The company avoids the use of he term French phone, however: its official title is Bell system hand-set. Several hundred experts have been at work since this instrument was devised, improving it, but experiments still go on. The phone does not survive satisfactorily the rough treatment it receives, although it is as durable as the old desk type of instrument. Slamming the headpiece on to the delicate plunger and knocking the whole apparatus on the floor present problems in durability...

It is even now, however, superior to any other of its type, the engineers report, and is the only French instrument the company allows to be used. Employees are instructed to report any "alien" instruments and the company then orders them removed. In investigating faulty transmission the officials first determine whether the subscriber has an outlaw instrument...

Just Because it's Sunday: "Slippery People"

During the Talking Heads' stellar "Stop Making Sense" concert, the band slowly arrives -- one by one -- and are gradually joined by guest musicians.

Here we've got Funkadelic alumni Lynn Mabry and Edna Holt (Bernie Worrell isn't on stage yet but Jerry Harrison is up to the task). It's all incredible except for Tina Weymouth's parachute pants.

It's Sunday and it's beautiful outside. This is one of the most beautiful things I can think of. If you've never watched the concert video, now's the time. Listen to Weymouth's chunky-funky bass breakdown and check out two of the best backup singers around. And in case you didn't know it: yes, David Byrne is a wicked guitar player.

Wayout

Whenever I'm feeling particularly bored or aimless I find myself playing Paul Edelstein's 1982 game "Wayout." It's annoying -- endless featureless corridors, a map-stealing "Cleptangle," deliberately confounding mazes, and windy areas that seem to serve no purpose but to make the game longer -- but I'm a sucker for labyrinths and it's a good time killer.

If anybody can tell me how to use the fireflies to find the exits, that would be much appreciated.