Adapted from the 1969
Broadway show of the same name, 1776
is an epic-length musical about the Second Continental Congress, the fractious
delegation that represented the American colonies during the Revolutionary War
and eventually ratified the Declaration of Independence, thus severing the U.S.
from Great Britain. While producer Jack L. Warner (a founder of the studio that
bears his family’s name) is to be commended for bringing such historically
important subject matter to the screen—and for allowing his collaborators to
treat the material intelligently—the movie is a lumbering beast.
Running various lengths owing to changes made during its original
release and reissues (the most widely available version runs about
three hours), the movie has a strange rhythm, with long stretches performed as
straight drama without music. Furthermore, some determinations of when
characters should burst into song make little sense. At its most unfocused, the
picture stops dead for “He Plays the Violin,” a love ballad sung by Thomas
Jefferson’s wife (Blythe Danner) about her husband’s sexual prowess. Still, there’s
almost as much interesting stuff in the movie as there is pointless nonsense
like “He Plays the Violin.”
The main storyline involves John Adams (William
Daniels)—who is portrayed, unwisely, as an overbearing snob—trying to ram the
idea of independence down the throats of his Continental Congress colleagues,
particularly those from Southern states. The film’s best number, “But, Mr.
Adams,” features Adams and others, including Benjamin Franklin (Howard Da
Silva), dumping the chore of writing the Declaration onto a nobly
self-sacrificing Jefferson (Ken Howard). During this scene, the
filmmakers combine clever choreography, rousing music, and witty lyrics into
purposeful satire. Many noteworthy sequences, however, are bereft of songcraft. After all, revered playwright/screenwriter Peter
Stone (Charade) wrote the book for
the stage musical and the screenplay for the film, and his dialogue is generally
quite choice. For instance, the spirited floor debates that Stone renders, which were
inspired by the memoirs of Continental Congressmen, feature charged
exchanges about capitalism, elitism, monarchism, and—the thorniest subject of
all—slavery.
Had Warner’s team mercilessly cut
the show down to, say, two hours, they could have zeroed in on the essential
drama of forming “a more perfect union.” As it stands, for every potent
moment—the song “Cool, Cool, Considerate Men” is a savage number about
right-wing politics, and the harrowing “Molasses to Rum” skewers Northerners
for their hypocritical attitude toward slavery—there are a dozen scenes that
serve no important purpose. Furthermore, except for the catchy
“But, Mr. Adams,” Sherman Edwards’ music is generally mediocre; his melodies
are labored, and his taste for operatic grandiosity is tiresome.
And in terms of generating audience engagement, the movie also
badly wants for a strong sympathetic performance. Daniels is far too prickly to
serve as a leading man for an epic musical, Da Silva’s penchant for cheap
comedy is undignified even though he lands a few successful jokes, and Howard
is simply too vanilla. In fact, the performers who come off best are bad guys
John Cullum and Donald Madden, playing two obstinate Southern representatives. When the strongest players in a story about the formation of America portray characters opposed the
formation of America, that’s a sign something is awry.
1776:
FUNKY
