Talking Pictures

Ladies and Gentlemen!

The time has come to tell you a little bit about a human being I love very dearly; an artist I never met, but know well; a charming, shamefully talented, no-good, narcissistic, fend-for-yourself-but-come-back-to-me, generous-in-all-things-but-love, since-departed angel sent down from the gods of show business to make a lot of money; a father, a friend, a lover, a very big spender; a prodigy of dance, stage, film, and choreography; something of a schmuck and one hell of a great guy, that’s right, you guessed it:

Bob Fosse.

He was a bottomless wound of everything, and unlike most people who learn to scab as they age, Fosse kept up the pain, sometimes actively seeking it out like it was a great secret of the dark world. He wounded just about everyone along the way, from his daughter to his lovers to his wives, although at four packs a day, and a little chronic heart disease, Lithium, Valium, Dex and sex thrown in on the side, he hurt no one more than himself (or so he said). Or so he said! But was it true? Does it matter? If it looks real, then who’s going to say it isn’t?

That’s showbiz. But come to think of it, what isn’t? Early to see America for what it truly was – a hard-edged vaudeville fueled by lust and corruption – Bob Fosse slithered sex and cynicism into the modern age, taking the popular zietgeist fromOklahama! to Chicago. Beginning as early as the 1950s, when the country was trying to stay nice, Fosse shown the spotlight on the national urge, pulled back the black velvet curtain, and with that failed-in-Boston astringency said, “Why not go down singing?” A suggestive tilt of his bowler hat, and his world made the unglamorous predicament of our world glamorously clear.

In honor of Mr. Fosse’s legacy, and – I can’t hold back any longer – the very serious book I’m about to begin writing about his life, how about an inaugural number from Miss Gwen Verdon and Miss Chita Rivera?

Ready girls?