THE MARCH OF TIME
by Pat Padua

ABBA: THE MOVIE (1977)

This was the first feature directed by Lasse Hallstrom (Chocolat, The Cider House Rules). It follows the superstar pop group on an Australian tour, with generous concert footage of sexy Swedes and screaming Aussie youth. Blonde Agnetha performs what is apparently a signature stage move: turning her back to the audience, she points her fingers up and down and marches in place, shifting what a cab-driver calls "the best bottom in Europe."

Hallstrom interjects a sometimes ironic commentary: as the group sings "Money money money" - concert footage is juxtaposed with scenes of merchandising: buttons being peddled by a middle-aged entrepreneur, and hats and tee-shirts being exchanged for a stream of filthy ducats.

The performances are framed by a frustrating plot device. Ashley (Robert Hughes) is a Sydney disc jockey assigned to interview ABBA for a radio special. Obstacles overcome him: a missing backstage pass, a boorish road manager, bad timing. Denied access to the band, Ashley makes do with Australian fans and critics more entertaining than any superstar Swede.


Kid 1: I think their songs are good.
Ashley: What's good about them?
Kid 1: The good parts.
Kid 2: I think they're sexy.
Kid 3: No they're not they're nice!

The first reel of the print I saw was faded and blotchy, although not even a quarter-century old. It was an odd reminder of the ravages of time.

THIS IS THE ARMY (1943).

Irving Berlin wrote two wartime stage revues, Yip Yip Yaphank (1918), and This is the Army (1942), that were combined to make this 1943 movie. If you were expecting a simple jingoistic spectacular, you would not be entirely correct. Michael Curtiz, fresh from directing Casablanca, frames the two shows and the two wars with a sentimental but moving plot. Jerry Jones (George Murphy) is a successful dancer on Broadway when he's called into service, producing Yip Yip Yaphank with a crew of fellow soldiers. Crowds cheer; lives, if not lost, are changed forever. A generation later, the surviving members of that company help the new kids - including Jerry's son Johnny (Lt. Ronald Reagan) - put on another show, This is the Army.

Although Ronald Reagan stayed at Warner Brothers after production ended, all the principals in the show and film were soldiers in the same Army outfit. This was then the only integrated company in the Army, though there really isn't an integrated number. Sgt. Joe Louis gets the spotlight in "That's what the well-dressed man in Harlem will wear." He's introduced on stage, where amidst the dancers he stands at the end of a row, sparring with a punching bag.

Like an Elizabethan acting company, an all-male Army outfit faced certain casting challenges. What makes This is the Army particuarly odd is that it features, not one, but three drag numbers. Unfortunately, none of them involve Reagan. Alan Hale Sr., who looks just like his son, the skipper on Gilligan's Island, is among the cross-dressers, and it's not pretty. Female impersonators don full makeup and gown, but leave ample chest hair showing. This was the Army?

One of the numbers is in blackface, which might explain why you don't see this on TV - although the restoration print, in beautiful technicolor, was partially funded by American Movie Classics.

Seymour Green, one of the surviving members of the cast, appeared at the screening. He had a small part in the movie as a little guy who plays the bugle. Only twenty-two when he made the movie, for some reason he looked much older, so you're pleasantly surprised that he's still around. An audience member asked about what seemed to be openly gay members of the outfit. Green said yeah, the acrobats and other performers were gay, but everybody got along. The Army is different now.


Irving Berlin himself sings one of the closing numbers, "Oh How I Hate To Get Up in the Morning." Green related a story that Berlin liked to tell. A crew member working on the set heard Berlin singing and remarked, "If the guy who wrote that song could hear this guy sing it, he'd turn over in his grave."



©2001 Pat Padua
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