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And this is not Fosse. Yes, he made it: but it turns on one of those stupid frauds that American show biz can’t get enough of, that “You haven’t lived until you’ve played the Palace,” that “You’ll never make the big time because you’re small-time in your heart,” that MGM dream of a culture made entirely of show biz, for which Mickey and Judy filmed manuals for do-it-yourself stardom while, behind a prop tree, little Jackie Cooper was fucking Joan Crawford. It’s naïve—a condition that has nothing to do with Bob Fosse. Yet, came Fosse’s third act, there was “Mr. Bojangles,” again from Dancin’, and another risibly sentimental number. Fosse wasn’t a romantic; Fosse was a satirist. Fosse was enjoyable, of course, and a thrilling showcase for the dancers. But it was an incorrect piece, not dishonest but concentrating on rather a lot of irrelevant material.
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Ethan Mordden (The Happiest Corpse I've Ever Seen: The Last Twenty-Five Years of the Broadway Musical (The History of the Broadway Musical Book 7))