Chicago by Elizabeth Teskey

 

Sexy. Sparkling. Superficial. Chicago’s high profile 1920s cabaret is offering murder, style, and all that jazz to Minneapolis audiences through February 1. Showcasing Bob Fosse’s inspired choreography while following the trials of Roxie Hart and Velma Kelly, this show has enjoyed a Broadway run length second only to Phantom of the Opera, becoming synonymous with its most prevalent theme: fame. But amid its miles of mistimed humor, soulless performances, and hit-or-miss ensemble cohesion, I spent my entire night debating whether this tour was a work of pure genius, or simply limping along on the prestige of its marquee. 

In truth, Chicago did accomplish everything it advertised. Cynicism practically dripped off every inch of this stage with each one-liner or raunchy look, especially during its darkest moments. Each piece performed by a principal cast member remained consistently captivating (shoutout Ellie Roddy’s 10-minute masterpiece “Roxie”). while, not to be outdone, Chicago’s ensemble sparkled brighter than the literal glitter raining from the Orpheum rafters. As a single synchronized unit, they embodied technique and teamwork in a haze of golden midnight, everything this production’s reputation has taught me to expect. 

So where was the disconnect? 

This production was little more than its marquee. Showy, risqué, and only an inch deep. While I thoroughly believe some deeper message about fame lies somewhere within Chicago’s script, its opportunity to develop suffocated under the tongue-in-cheek remarks or visual gags thrust unceremoniously into every moment. Characters felt more like caricatures than real people, tiring around the two-hour mark. No matter how objectively entertaining they were, it was difficult to connect with a single one of them. 

The only true “Hart” I found in this entire production was Marc Christopher’s Amos. His genuine messy positivity felt like a breath of fresh air contrasting his castmates’ dry polished pessimism. Even though his only song “Mr. Cellophane” was the least flashy in the show, it quickly became outstanding from being so darn loveable. 

 

Without a single major set change, this ensemble’s blocking was singularly responsible for setting the environment for each new song and scene. Even Chicago’s polished ensemble could not mask that there are only so many ways to uniquely utilize 18 bodies. Each moment outside of Fosse’s killer synchronicity felt too crowded, too busy, and much too similar to the last. It was these moments where I’d find myself baffled by the duplicity of this classic production - couldn’t a show nearing its 29th birthday on Broadway solve the mystery of “Razzle Dazzle’s” indigo-bathed-decadance without its opening resembling a circus of scattered bodies?  

Chicago is best performed as an alluring cabaret-style vessel for Fosse’s masterfully pioneered choreography, set with a swinging band and seductive ensemble. Those expecting such a show shall receive it in flying colors. But any expectations beyond the flash and fame are to be sorely disappointed. Without easily loveable characters or coherent takeaways, this show feels little more than a variety show attempting a plot.