Fuck you, I’m still cool

I’d like to say that I’m not even remotely embarrassed that I went to Chicago last night. I’d like to say that, but I would be lying. I mean, maybe I’d be a little less embarrassed if the spotty little teenage arsehole who sold me the ticket hadn’t given me a look that suggested Heironymous and I shared something more than an appreciation for musicals. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. But there’s always that little part of your mind, that part with the horrendous memories of what being a teenager was actually like, that is actually capable of caring what someone who doesn’t yet qualify for the adult minimum wage is thinking.

Plus which, I don’t actually like musicals.

And, for that matter, I can’t stand Catherine Zeta Jones. There’s just something about her, that screams she’s playing these utterly vapid characters for a very good reason, that I find utterly repulsive.

Nonetheless, Chicago was, to coin a phrase, fabulous.

In fact, I think it was my idea to go in the first place. Despite my avowed hatred of the musical, there was something about the trailer for this one that convinced me I wanted to see it anyway. Maybe it was the fabulosity. I dunno.

Anyway, I saw it.

Now, for this next bit to make sense, I’m going to have to explain exactly what it is I hate about musicals. Ideally without making any more jokes about homosexuality, which I always get the irresistible urge to make when the subject of musicals come up. Wish me luck…

I’m not really what you’d call a music lover. I mean, I like it and all, but it doesn’t exactly play a big part in my life. I tend to use music as a background – a mood-setter – for something else. You know, something interesting.

On the other hand, since I think of myself as a writer, things like plot and story telling are very important to me.

So the problem, for me, with most musicals (and this even applies to the one or two I’ve actually liked in the past) is that the plot – what little there is – is really just there to fill in the gap between one song and the next. Which seems to me to be a pretty shitty way to treat something as obviously important as plot.

Chicago, though, was a different story entirely. Not only did it have a strong plot, but the musical numbers were an intrinsic part of it. Not only did they add a strange, dream-like quality to the film, that fit amazingly well with the events, but the plot didn’t stop for the songs – because they were part of it.

It was cool.

Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I now have to watch something with giant killer robots in it to re-affirm my heterosexuality.

-- Hewligan

04/05/2003