It just figured. First day of vacation and there I was, surrounded by the same old cons.
The loudmouth crooks, the slick lawyers, the reporters swarming like army ants. Every one with a story to tell. Every one craving fame like a dog craves meat.
Disgusting, the lot of them.
One day out of the office and here I was, knee deep in the same old slop. Women with sob stories trying to back-stab their husbands. Friends turning on friends to make a buck. Corruption at every layer of the system.
Prisoners heralded like movie stars while good people were cast away like bags of garbage. Killers signing autographs while victims of their crimes became as transparent as cellophane.
Terrible business. All I wanted was to get away from the slime for a week and there I was, right back in the stench of trickery, deceit and betrayal. It’s the same old razzle-dazzle. It’s the same old song and dance.
OK, gumshoe. You figured me out. I’m talking about “Chicago,” and I admit it. Take away one of my Man Cards if you have to, tough guy, but I just dug the hell out of this performance.
What’s not to like? We’re talking curvy women in fishnet tights sharing prison cells. We’re talking bullets and knives, adultery and frame jobs. We’re talking sex and violence and greed and doesn’t that just make you feel right at home?
Call me crazy, but you could scrub away the flashing letters that spell Chicago and replace them with L-E-W-I-S-T-O-N and the story would lose no credibility. The kind of corruption portrayed in this glitzy production is very familiar indeed.
The gum-snapping broad getting all dolled up so she’ll look good for the cameras at trial? You’ve seen her picture and read her story right here in the Sun Journal.
That dashing and daring lawyer, Billy Flynn? We’ve beheld his antics right up there in the Androscoggin County courthouse. There may be four or five versions of Billy Flynn in the local yellow pages, but there’s one, for me, who really stands out. Handsome, sly, and always stylish, always plying his trade in custom-tailored suits.
“Chicago” is lurid more than anything else. Lewiston-style lurid with its made-for-TV crime and soap opera turns of events. “Chicago” made me feel right at home.
Don’t get me wrong. I hate musicals. I generally despise anything that requires that I sit in a chair for three hours applauding at two-minute intervals. When I was invited to this show, I scratched and clawed like a cat on dope trying to get out of it. I don’t want to end up with any culture on me, you know.
Ten minutes into this one, though, I was all goggle-eyes and red palms from slapping them together so hard. This! I thought. This is what Lewiston would look like if our criminals could sing and dance. And if they were good-looking. And a great deal smarter.
Someone should make a production out of the goings-on in Lewiston someday. Someone with an eye for irony. It would be like “West Side Story” meets “Dawn of the Dead” and would climax in Kennedy Park with everyone dancing to the tune of that Dirty Lew song. We’d have baggy jeans instead of fishnets and duds from Marden’s instead of tailored suits. Everybody here gets a role. Why, I’ve personally been rehearsing for 16 years on Park Street.
For now, we have “Chicago.” And if you have to succumb to at least one stupid wife plan over the course of the summer, I say make it this one. You’ll love it, but pretend you don’t. Pretend to hate it and sulk the whole way and maybe, just maybe, you won’t have to go to some obscure cousin’s wedding in September. How’s that for advice, my friend?
Now, give me back my Man Card or I’m calling my lawyer.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. He plays the part of the crime reporter. Send reviews to mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.
Send questions/comments to the editors.
