Silver Screen. Grease the movie, review
Grease. Directed by Randal Kleisar. Starring John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John (CIC)
NOT ONLY is it “the word”, Grease is the registered trademark. Grease is the RSO machine, Grease is the hype, is the hype that’s been swiped, la la. And it tacks, right? Wrong.
Admittedly, it never approaches the wit or perception of that other ’50s montage master American Graffiti - it has no aspirations in that direction anyway - but it sure beats the crap out of the mechanised dross of Happy Days (not difficult) and as an adaptation of a successful stage musical it works surprisingly well, and often.
Surprisingly, because ninety per cent of all musicals are so manky. Surprisingly, in much the same way that Saturday Night Fever was a minor pleasure on its own terms despite the attendant brouhaha. And still more surprisingly, because the dire opening ten minutes erroneously intimate that Grease is going to be a huge gift-wraрреd dud on the scale of Richard Nixon’s cheque to the Inland Revenue. But just as Tricky Dicky adroitly skipped tax evasion charges, so Grease slithers on inexorably, leaving oil-skinned film critics drooling egg white.
What did they expect, for Stigwood’s sake? Intelligence? Integrity? What they get is an engaging guy of traditional musicals, conservatively door, like How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, and absolutely no pretension.
So although Grease is in no way as ambitious, or interesting, as that other ’50s B-movie pisstake The Rocky Homer Show, its success rate is far higher because it aims low and reaches the target. The fact that it’s got a hallway decent score helps, too.
The biggest rib-nudger comes in the dopey prelude (for which Allan Carr has foolishly taken credit), where the saccharine awfulness of “Love Is A Many Splendored Thing” accompanies Martini shots of the Normal Couple (Olivia and Mr Travolta, obviously) as they gambol in the sand, whisper sweet nothings and watch, glaze-eyed. breaking surf. All that’s missing is a train entering the tunnel or a crumbling smokestack, but you wince just the same. There follows the tackiest set of animated credits I’ve ever seen in a “major” movie - Richard Williams where are you, and why won’t Hollywood employ you?
When the film proper commences, Rydell High School appears to be populated by the oldest set of tearaways since Marion Brando mumbled at his biker cronies in The Wild One, and the spirit sags further.
Not for long, though. As soon as the first number bursts forth the bright, breezy “Summer Nights” - a grin arrives, which will be more or less constant as the adolescent (haha) meatheads go about the serious business of cheeking teacher, dry bumping dates, exploding Zippos, groping at the Drive-In, cruising for a bruising on foreign turf and generally having a good time on their brothers’ IDs (two chocolate malted and an Eskimo Pie please, Vi).
“You sure are a cheap date,” says Putzie to the girl in plaits who declines a bite of his burger.
“Chicks are only good for one thing,” says Doody, menacingly. “Yeah.” says Sunny. “But what are you supposed to do with ‘em the other 23 hours and 45 minutes of the day?”
Well, everyone’s famous for fifteen minutes, but some of this dialogue should last a good deal longer.
The sloppy choreography is as fetching as John Travolta’s hopelessly lop-sided smile, and falters only when it attempts to be slick (“Greased Lightin’ “). John’s feet are in fine fettle and it matters not a jot that Olivia is a lame hoofer since everyone looks at him anyway.
There’s no disputing it - whatever it is you need to be A Star. Travolta’s got it. What Grease has got is at least six first-rate songs, a genuinely excellent performance from the delectably stocky Stockard Channing, enjoyable daft dialogue (“Bite the weeny. Riz.” “With relish.”), crisp cameos from some 50s ‘celebrities (notably Frankie Avalon, Sid Caesar and Eve Arden) and functional direction from TV-graduate Randal Kleiser which allows everyone to get on with everything, no fuss.
Of course it’s ludicrous fluff - even the car does a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang at the end. But you can go buy the popcorn during the obligatory lovelorn ballads. And you’d have to be grumpy as a High Court Judge not to come out smiling.
By Monty Smith