I Can’t Stop Thinking About Andrew Lloyd Webber Movies
[This article was originally written in April 2022 for the University of East London’s Dead Bloggers’ Society.]
Full disclosure, for the past week I’ve been dealing with a moderately bad case of Covid-19. Luckily, I’m now on the mend, but I did spend most of this week feverishly trying to complete coursework while suffering from a dense, foggy, mucus-filled brain. And I’m not proud of this, but truthfully only one thing has gotten me through it: Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Jesus Christ Superstar. Yes, from the day I went out to get more Covid tests for my infected household last week to seconds before writing this, the 1971 religious rock opera has been living in my head completely rent-free. Delving into this musical for the first time, as well as familiarizing myself with Webber’s Cats earlier this year (I just had to understand whether there was any merit to the source material behind the 2019 film) has given me a newfound respect for the composer, and even more so made me ponder his long and sordid relationship with the silver screen. I’d like to present three case studies here: Norman Jewison’s 1973 adaptation of the aforementioned Jesus Christ Superstar, Joel Schumacher’s unforgivable 2004 adaptation of The Phantom of the Opera, and of course, Tom Hooper’s unfathomably misguided 2019 adaptation of Cats. The execution of these adaptations ranges from mildly successful to genuinely soul-crushing. With that in mind, humor me as I embark on this journey to heal my inner theater kid.
Now, it would be dishonest of me to say that I’ve always been a fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber. I admit, up until quite recently, I fostered a sort of snobbish disdain for the man. At most, I thought of Webber as an entertainer and nothing more; the poor man’s Sondheim, if you will. In my mind, Webber was the junk food to Sondheim’s fine dining; the Marvel movie to Sondheim’s Iranian New Wave. Or something. And while I can’t say that I don’t still consider Webber more of a crowd-pleaser than a Sondheim or a Kander, I do think my initial opinion was naive and uneducated at best. There’s a reason that Webber is so prolific, and that his work is so consistently popular. Getting to know Cats, surprisingly, gave me some newfound appreciation for Webber, but it was really exploring Jesus Christ Superstar for the first time that convinced me of Webber’s depth as an artist.
Finally, a passion pageant for the girls and the gays.
Jesus Christ Superstar is one of Webber and lyricist Tim Rice’s earliest and most well-known works. Originally created as a concept album, the sung-through rock opera tells the story of the Passion mainly from Judas’s perspective; just one of the decisions that has made the show enduringly controversial. One of the chief non-religious criticisms of the work is that it lacks depth and artistic merit. Upon the show’s Broadway premiere, Clive Barnes of the New York Times said “It all rather resembled one’s first sight of the Empire State Building. Not at all uninteresting, but somewhat unsurprising and of minimal artistic value.” I have to disagree with this assessment. As I’ve experienced the text, I would argue that the way that Webber and Rice project human complexity onto such old, archetypical, and frequently unquestioned figures as Jesus and Judas is somewhat absurdly revolutionary. We may take the old “Legendary hero was a human man who may have had reservations about martyrdom” narrative for granted these days, but Webber and Rice deserve credit where credit is due. They did it long before Spider-Man 2.
Therefore, going into Norman Jewison’s adaptation, my expectations were rather high. I think Jesus Christ Superstar has immense potential as a work of art. And while we’re at it, I also think Jewison is an underrated figure among American directors. Strangely enough, I went through a period of strong obsession with his 1979 Al Pacino legal drama …And Justice for All when I was in high school (yes, I was very popular as a teen, thank you for asking.) So, does Jewison’s film accomplish what it sets out to do? Somewhat. There’s a lot to like about this adaptation. The cinematography is stunning, the editing is purposeful and bespoke. Several sequences of double exposure in the film create gorgeous unified images; Mary Magdalene’s face imposed over Christ’s procession to his crucifixion stands out. The film begins and ends with the cast, out of costume, arriving at and leaving Jerusalem. This, and other elements that call attention to the artificiality of the medium, are bold choices that only add to the depth of the work. The viewer has no choice but to ponder the purpose of artistic depictions of religious figures, period. But perhaps the greatest asset of this film is its willingness to embrace the homoeroticism and camp of the text. Hear me out. The charged, lingering touches and gazes between Judas and Jesus just add that certain je ne sais quoi. When the spirit of Judas descends from the heavens, ankle-length white fringe hanging off the arms of his costume, one really has to hand it to Jewison and Webber for making a Passion pageant for the girls and the gays. However, for all its visual splendor, this version feels slightly disconnected from the human conflict and emotion of it all. Something in the staging and direction never quite allows the events to become relatable, or to become more than allegorical. Viewers seeking a more timely, emotionally engaging version may be better off giving NBC’s 2018 live concert a chance.
Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess in the superior filmed stage show.
But during my sick week, I watched another, far more harrowing Webber adaptation; Joel Schumacher’s Phantom of the Opera. Now, I’m really not the authority on Phantom and its many adaptations; if you want the definitive take on this film, Lindsay Ellis’s evergreen video essay is the way to go. But it is arguably impossible to discuss Webber adaptations of varying quality without touching on this whole… deal. The 2004 adaptation’s failure was ultimately a product of both Schumacher’s incompetence as a filmmaker and Webber being given unchecked creative control by Warner Bros. The film was in development hell for years, with possible leads including John Travolta and Antonio Banderas. Inexplicably, it was Gerard Butler who was cast in the final version. Butler’s main problem, of course, is his complete lack of experience singing. The man chooses to scream or whisper many sung lines, leading to some of the most unintentionally enjoyable moments in the film. Emmy Rossum doesn’t fare much better as the female lead; though her voice is perfectly serviceable for pop, it’s clear that the sixteen-year-old (!) was simply not adequately prepared to render the show’s grand and operatic style. Phantom does not possess the type of score that can be flubbed by non-singing actors; a Mamma Mia! or La La Land it is not. But even if the music had been appropriately executed, Schumacher’s shortcomings are on display here: The majority of the cinematography falls flat, the editing is purposeless, the imagery lacks depth, and the already-tenuous narrative structure of the musical is made far less compelling by Schumacher’s clear lack of understanding of the basics of cinematic storytelling. In a good rendition of Phantom, the hours fly by, and the romantic tension between Christine and the Phantom is palpable (Watch the filmed 25th anniversary version for a phantom that evokes more "I can fix him" energy than "Someone call the police" energy). This simply can’t at all be said for Schumacher’s version. Nevertheless, Patrick Wilson does alright. Poor ALW. He’ll get ‘em next time!
Do you think God stays in heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he's created?
Unfortunately, ‘next time’ was Cats (2019). There is no shortage of Cats (2019) hatred on the internet, so I’ll spare you some of the more detailed vitriol. I’m not terribly interested in reiterating to you how woefully unfit Tom Hooper was to direct this adaptation, how unsuccessfully the film attempts to stretch its events into a traditional narrative, or how deeply the film insists on thrusting the viewer into the uncanny valley; no, I’m more concerned with the public’s conflation of Cats (2019) with Cats, the actual stage show. I assure you, the two couldn’t be more different. The thing about Cats is that it is very much focused on the music, and even more so on the dancing. One does not buy a ticket for Cats the musical for the story, or the character development, or the profound observations on the human condition. One buys a ticket for Cats the musical so that one can see a horde of athletic human beings dressed up to look absolutely nothing like cats gyrate sexily to a string of incredibly catchy showtunes. And do you know what? I think that’s okay. Maybe that’s all Cats needs to be. With a talented cast, the show dazzles with entertainment. The issue arises when an auteur-wannabe like Tom Hooper shows up, hungry for more slices of that delicious Oscars pie he was able to sample with Les Miserables (2012). Tom simply couldn’t wait to get his grubby little Oscar bait hands all over Cats, and as a result crafted a film that is truly unlike anything else I’ve ever seen in my life. I do not mean that as a compliment. It is nightmarish. And although some on the internet seem intent on lauding Cats (2019) as the latest so-bad-it’s-good classic, as a bad media aficionado myself (I recently watched over 20 Lifetime made-for-television films about cheerleading), believe me when I say that Hooper’s film is anything but enjoyable. There is none of the charming earnestness vital to a good bad movie, no naive camp in sight. Merely the folly of studio bigwigs believing that any popular Broadway property can become a Best Picture nominee should enough money be thrown at it. Forgive them, reader. They know not what they Cats.
The man, the myth, the legend.
Perhaps, at times, Webber succumbs just a little bit to that very blind celebrity worship which Jesus Christ Superstar aimed to criticize. Perhaps, at times, the overwhelming commercial success of his work instills a bit too much faith in his own power. Even so, despite my earlier feelings toward the man, I must now acknowledge that there is an artist in Andew Lloyd Webber, both musically and thematically. He shows himself from time to time in the form of a Music of the Night here and a Don’t Cry for me Argentina there. The ensuing question is whether one can translate this artistry into meaningful cinema, and, to an extent, whether it’s even worth trying. Maybe one day there will be a film adaptation of Phantom of the Opera or Cats or hell, even Starlight Express that will finally comprehend the nuances of what distinguishes the form of musical theater from the form of cinema. Until that day, I’ll languish in the throes of my musical fever dream, letting the thrum of Heaven on Their Minds soothe my heavy head. Oh Andrew. Truly, I don’t know how to love him.