I came across Cabaret the first time at a highly formative time in my life. I was around 11 or 12, and I found it on cable. Clearly, I didnât understand every single nuance, yet the content spoke to me on a very deep level. As time has gone on, Cabaret has only solidified in my mind as the obvious choice for greatest movie musical ever made.
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This isnât your typical musical, as it takes place in a very recognizable real world, with all of the musical numbers mostly kept to the Kit Kat Club, and the various musical numbers providing diegesis commentary. Then there is the ambiguity of the ending, which could almost be read as defiant and hopeful if it werenât for the pan across the crowd in the finale revealing an audience comprised of Nazi youth.
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Taking place at the exact time when the Weimar Republic was ending and the Nazis were gaining more power and traction in German society, Cabaret lives up to Sally Bowlesâ âdivine decadenceâ philosophy of life. Presenting a society of corrosion and perverted sexuality, with Bob Fosse keeping a cool distance from the proceedings. Other musicals are easier to swallow because theyâre warm and inviting, theyâre wholesome and filled with emotional uplift, but Cabaret stands in opposition to them.
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Much like Christopher Isherwoodâs impassive, documentary-style writing in The Berlin Stories, Cabaret is made up of acutely realized details and character developments. Isherwoodâs The Berlin Stories are filled with memorable characters, and many of them are translated from page-to-screen with great success, but none quite as brilliantly as Sally Bowles.
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In the novel (and stage show), Sally Bowles is an obviously untalented drug addict, and sheâs not quite that here. Part of the change in character comes from Liza Minnelli, a thoroughbred performer with a raft-shaking voice and phenomenal dance talent. This version of Sally is all artifice, a commitment to exuberance, lifeâs many thrills, and an addiction to nihilistic pleasures of living solely in the moment. She makes âCabaretâ into both a declaration of self, and a defiant anthem of desperation. This Sally is no less self-destructive, but if she could get her act together she could become the top-billed shining star she dreams of. Thatâs never going to happen, and when the smiling mask cracks, Minnelli reveals the swirling, tortured, ugly emotions forcing Sally into chasing joy at all costs. Hers is one of the best Oscar wins, ever.
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Sallyâs psychic torment in pursuit of merriment is a microcosm of much of the film, with the Kit Kat Club being the diseased soul reflecting back what sheâs showing us. Led by Joel Greyâs grinning imp of an emcee, he leads us through not only the cabaret, but through the story, as the film constantly cuts back to the Kit Kat Club and the emcee either performing or introducing a performance. He becomes something of a twisted narrator and guide. Heâs also the first major character we meet in the opening number, âWillkommen,â which is something of an omen of things to come.
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That opening number reflects back on the cosmopolitan nature in its death throes of the era. These numbers donât necessarily propel the story forward, so much as they act as running commentary stripped from the storytelling. âMein Herrâ is Sallyâs first number, and not only does it introduce important aspects of her character, but it hints at the demise of her relationship with Brian (Michael York) one scene after theyâve been introduced to each other. âTwo Ladiesâ makes explicit the mĂŠnage a trois between Sally, Brian, and Max (Helmut Griem), and itâs also an absolute laugh riot of lascivious and bawdy humor. And âIf You Could See Herâ ends with a punchline about a person being Jewish right when the Nazis are appearing more and more often after only having been on the periphery for so much of the film. It also makes the film audience a duplicitous member of the laughing cabaret audience.
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The one musical number to not take place in the Kit Kat Club, âTomorrow Belongs to Me,â is a haunting, waking nightmare. As a blond Nazi youth begins singing, the crowd in the beer garden is met with a tense unease at first, before the crowd gives in and starts singing along. The sequence ends with Brian and Max driving away while the entire beer garden stands in solidarity with the Nazi youth, and it is terrifying. Itâs also a perfect symbolic gesture for the rising antisemitism of the era.
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All of this is so memorable because of Bob Fosseâs expert direction, which is electric in energy and unique in editing choices. Most musicals edit on the beats of the score, or to capture the energy of the dancers. Fosse and David Brethertonâs editing is dynamic and rhythmic, but also completely original. Chicago is obviously indebted to Cabaretâs cross-cutting techniques and surgical removal of the musical numbers, but it canât compete with the greatness on display here.
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Cabaret ends just as Nazism is taking its stranglehold on the country, and these sexually amorphous, gender-bending, and deviant characters will either be flushed out of the society or escape of their own volition. Glamorously broken, this is a film that presents a subterranean group in its final cries of despair, masked as they are by subversion of emotional and political truths. Itâs at times hard to explain the sheer depth of feeling and artistry so evident when you watch Cabaret, but itâs one of the greatest films weâve ever produced.