42nd Street (1933)
It’s precode, so the plot is based on a premise many might find offensive today; Bebe Daniels has dinner with a fat old producer (Guy Kibbee) who says “I’ll do something for you, if you do something for me” and she says “What could I do for a big man like you?” The lights fade, and he’s producing 'Pretty Lady', and she’s starring in it. Ginger Rogers plays “Anytime Annie” who apparently “never said 'no' once — and then she didn’t hear the question!” But my favourite moment is when the director Warner Baxter is coaching Ruby Keeler (everyone knows the plot —Bebe Daniels breaks her ankle, drunk, and dewy-eyed Ruby Keeler must take over) and Baxter’s coaching her on her interpretation of: “Jim, they didn’t tell me you were here, it was grand of you to come!” She can’t get it right. But then Baxter (the director!) kisses her hard and long, and suddenly, she’s great. Ruby Keeler doesn’t appear at all flummoxed by being sexually molested, of course there was no talk of sexual harassment back then. And besides, it’s only the show that matters. Netflix just released Hollywood, a sordid expose of the sexploitation behind the scenes of 40s films. It’s entertaining enough (and also, quite hypocritically, soft core porn). But it’s missing something something 42nd Street has in spades; love of the art. From the moment director Warner Baxter appears, sweating and popping pills, we understand a theatre director is a kind of warrior; he devotes life and limb to presenting a crackerjack show, even if it kills him. After the premiere of 'Pretty Lady,' Baxter sits on a fire escape smoking, overhearing the audience trashing him — “Some guy will say he discovered her — some guys get all the breaks.” It’s the loneliness of a suicidal devotion to theatre. I love 42nd Street, even though it’s corny hokum, pure and simple, and has nothing to do with reality. The last 30 minutes of the film could never happen. Baxter has less than 24 hours to teach Ruby Keeler an entire Broadway show, and of course, he does. She nearly collapses, and later he gives her the speech some of us know by heart, that ends with: “You’re going out a youngster, but you’re coming back a star!” Baxter confirms her oncoming success just before she goes on, grabbing her by the shoulders and fiercely questioning her: “Do you know your lines, your songs and your dance routines? — Well you’re a cinch!” This infantile concept of theatre reminds me of when you invite your aunt Thelma from Mississauga to see you in a Toronto play. After you’ve gotten physically naked - and emotionally honest -- in something incomprehensible, she remarks “I’m impressed.” And asks — “But how did you memorise all those lines?” Yes, 42nd Street is implausible and ridiculous, but I believed it from the beginning, precisely because it has no relationship to reality. Even the most ‘realistic’ play or novel has no actual proximity to facts; that is the pact that art makes with us, that we believe it, no matter what. Some think that Shakespeare deliberately placed anachronisms in his plays in order to remind us ‘art is fake, and I made this — aren’t you amazed?' (Shakespeare invented the word amazement, by the way.) We have abandoned amazement. The question ‘Do you believe in fairies?’ would today be treated with scorn, or as a gay joke. Of course it is the job of art to make us believe it is true when it’s not, but it is also our job to suspend our disbelief. When we watch the actors rehearse, with the footlights shining that fake ugly light on their faces, and with the other actors watching from the wings -- it's when Bebe Daniels sings -- ‘You’re Getting to be a Habit With Me' — 42nd Street makes me cry.’ I miss theatre. Two weeks before the opening of my last play the lead actor disappeared and, yeah, I took over the part, and yeah, we did the play, and yeah, we did quite well. You see these things kinda actually happen. But isn’t it awful that Ruby Keeler gets sexually molested by the director in order to learn how to accurately portray yearning (shades of Albert Schultz?), and isn't it disgusting that they laugh at Ginger Rogers and call her ‘Anytime Annie?’ But this is fantasy, not reality. Two years ago I asked one of my theatre students if Hamlet was mad, and she said “It’s not right to ask that question, because people who are mentally ill should be allowed to self-identify.” “Wha….?” I was praying I had misheard her — I didn’t want to believe that it was up to me to inform her that Hamlet is a fictional character, and that there is a difference between what is false and what is true. Or maybe it’s just that we have forgotten about joy. I know we live in ‘trying times’ (which may of course go on forever) but what about joy? Beethoven composed ‘Ode to Joy’ when he was deaf. What was Beethoven celebrating? Was he lying, then? Damn right he was; the joy is in the lie, and what I see all around me is the disappearance of joy, it's over, and people seem to be happy about it. We now must face facts first, and the fact is that a certain number of people died today. Of course it’s callous and unfeeling — but most of all displays ignorance of the truth — for me not to be able to tell you the actual tragic statistics. But today's daily TV news is not facts (sorry CNN), it is art, and we are being carefully manipulated, in order to frighten us to death. Why? In Camus’ The Plague there is no necessity for a media conglomerate to frighten people; they needed only look out the window and see the rats dying in the streets. If this were a real plague, we wouldn’t need to be intimidated into staying at home because we would be paralysed by fear. Yesterday they told us two children died of Kawasaki Disease, and that maybe, just maybe - there's a new horrifying disoovery! Maybe we were wrong along! Children might in fact be in danger of dying from COVID-19! (It doesn’t matter that some of the Kawasaki children didn’t test positive for COVID-19, nor does it matter that Kawasaki Disease has been around for ages and is barely lethal.) Can you not see that COVID-19 is just a Ruby Keeler musical? These days we demand 42nd Street adhere to the facts — but not CNN. We presently live in a carefully constructed play; I’m not quite sure who the director is, but if it’s Warner Baxter, he’s standing under a streetlight somewhere, smoking, and thinking - “Dammit, even if I don’t get the credit for this, it was bloody good work. I mean, they bought it -- and that’s all that matters.” Cue music. The End.
