“Don’t Rain on My Parade”: How an Iconic Number Washes Away Character Development

By Koby Hrynkiewicz

With a true New York wit and a voice like buttah’, Barbra Streisand’s breakout performance in Director William Wyler’s Funny Girl remains one of the best performances in any film musical. Not only did her role as Broadway pioneer Fanny Brice give way to the iconic phrase “hello, gorgeous,” but also to an unprecedented tie for Best Actress alongside Hollywood titan Katherine Hepburn at the 1969 Academy Awards. With so much iconography emerging from this classic musical film’s titular comedic lady, I would expect that it also pay a certain reverence to the story of Fanny Brice — which it does, but only for the film’s first half. The film falls victim to the stereotype of the worrisome lover (then wife, in the film’s latter half) by placing Streisand’s character amid male-centric songs . While the film remains one of the most important musical performances ever made, numbers like “Don’t Rain on my Parade” render Streisand’s Fanny Brice a poorly-developed character whose desire for male validation surplants her identity as an unparalleled Broadway star. 

Now, I am not questioning the legendary status of “Don’t Rain on my Parade,” which is arguably one of the most pervasive and iconic musical songs ever to emerge. However, it is important to interpret the song’s context within the film. The performance occurs near the midpoint of the film while Brice and the Follies complete their touring engagement in Baltimore. However, after a week-long love affair with the enigmatic Nick Arnstein, Fanny – in her typically Fanny way –  spontaneously leaves the tour to follow Nick to Europe. Perhaps the most crucial detail within this scene is her co-stars’ attempts to persuade Fanny to stay, stating lines like “you’re making a fool of yourself” and “haven’t you any pride?” These moments lead Streisand to burst into “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” with the film’s director William Wyler compelling the audience to view the Follies as the conflict, despite the actuality of their efforts to support a fellow female castmate. As such, the outburst into “Parade” – detailing the ways in which Brice will not be swayed from living out her true passions – feels like a slap in the face to Fanny’s character development. Sure, she’s standing up for what she believes in, but this sudden need to justify her want for male validation feels awkward. Throughout the film, Wyler has oriented us to Fanny’s daring, won’t-take-no attitude, but in this moment – the film’s most iconic performance, may I add – reduces her personality to appeasing her desires for a man. 

Bob Merrill’s lyrics, however, are strikingly empowering. Simply put, Fanny’s not letting anyone ruin her high – evident when she belts “I gotta fly once / I gotta try once” and “I’m gonna live and live now / Get what I want, I know how.” Only aided by the amazing range and emotion in Streisand’s vocal display, this song encapsulates a sense of go-getter aspiration and pursuit for Funny Girl’s protagonist. Yet, it is the full-bodied, reverberating crescendo of, “Hey, Mister Arnstein, here I am,” that ultimately reduces this empowerment anthem to a surface-level coo for the attention of a man. The fact that this singular lyric is the “highpoint” of the number indicates that this – the affections of a man she has been romantically involved with for only a few days – is the definitive motivator for her passions and aspirations. Throughout Act I, Fanny had been a shining beacon of pursuing her professional dreams, and has done so without once requiring the consultation of a male suitor. As such, this grandiose number ultimately waters down the vibrant aspirations Fanny pursues throughout the film’s former half. 

Yet, it is the full-bodied, reverberating crescendo of, “Hey, Mister Arnstein, here I am,” that ultimately reduces this empowerment anthem to a surface-level coo for the attention of a man.

What makes the “Mr. Arnstein” lyric all the more shallow is the fact that “Don’t Rain on My Parade” shares its melodic buildup and lyricism with “I’m the Greatest Star.” Unlike “Parade,” “Greatest Star” lets the audience see the go-getter mantra in a Fanny-centric way. In this previous number, Fanny pursues acknowledgment of her stage presence and raw talent. “I’m the Greatest Star” indicates Fanny’s celebration of herself through lyrics like “Some ain’t got it, not a lump / I’m a great big clump of talent,” unlike the way  “Parade” reduces her personal ambitions to a measly, little crush. The “Hey Mr. Keeney, here I am” lyric feels more powerful here, because Fanny knows she’s good enough on her own. Her call for Keeney is a sign of her boldness rather than a meager cry for validation. As such, the juxtaposition between the “Hey Mr. [insert surname here]” lyrics just hurts the authenticity of Fanny Brice in Funny Girl. The emphasis and dynamism Wyler placed on the “Parade” number rather than “Greatest Star” asks audiences to see Fanny’s pursuit for male validation as superior to her pursuit for talent recognition and the fulfillment of her dreams. 

As for the choreographic performance of “Don’t Rain on my Parade,” there is not much notable movement, but rather a series of long shots following Fanny as she makes her way back to New York and subsequently into Arnstein’s room on the ship. Many of these shots depict Streisand running frantically with her luggage and employing a multitude of transportation means to get to Nick. Within this supercut of Fanny’s unprompted return, I can’t help but notice how much this performance differs from the film’s prior numbers, those multitude of grandiose performances whether on the elegant Follies stage or wandering between street lights on Henry Street. This number feels small in comparison. Given what we know about Fanny Brice thus far – whether it be through Merrill’s audacious lyrics or Streisand’s zest-filled performance – small is not an appropriate adjective for describing this character. In most shots – specifically the train window shot and the shot of the taxi arriving to the seaport– viewers can hardly even make out Streisand’s bodily and facial characteristics. Wyler’s use of a supercut assumedly attempts to empower the audience alongside Fanny while she undergoes this triumphant return to her “love,” but I cannot help but feel a disconnect through this distanced orientation. For being such a bold and booming act closer, “Parade” undoes the nerve and excitement of earlier performances like “Roller Skate Rag” and “His Love Makes Me Beautiful.” Unfortunately, the lack of grandiose choreography or cinematography only prolongs the song’s vapidity. 

“Don’t Rain on My Parade” (Funny Girl, 1968)

“His Love Makes Me Beautiful” (Funny Girl, 1968)

With all that being said: I love Barbra Streisand, and I personally think she should have edged out Katherine Hepburn for that Best Actress win. I can’t even count the times I passed a mirror on the way out the door and thought to myself “hello, gorgeous.” Funny Girl is – whether you like or not – a piece of cultural iconography. However, it is important to acknowledge the inherent flaws present in this adaptation of Fanny Brice’s revolutionary role in the formation of modern musical theater culture: Brice is a standing column of inspiration, not only for women, but for first-generation Jewish individuals, and her role in the theater industry should be immortalized with total reverence and respect. Despite the powerhouse performance of Barbra Streisand in this film, the unfortunate hyper-fixation on her romantic obstacles takes away from the wondrous qualities which should have been the focus of this biopic.

Pantsuits versus Lingerie: How Gyspy Subverts Beliefs About Women’s Power

By Hayden Paige

When I came to college, did I ever imagine writing an essay (that I would be submitting to a literal professor) singing the praises of stripping? Not in the slightest. But is that what this essay will be about? Yes. Yes, it will.

“Misogynistic” is the term most people would use to describe sexy dancing or envision women getting almost naked on a theatrical stage to please horny men. These men clearly are objectifying women as sexual objects rather than seeing them as multidimensional beings. Yet, the 1993 made-for-television musical Gypsy challenges the idea that embracing one’s sexuality is inherently misogynist. Instead, Gypsy highlights the way females can deploy their sexuality to gain power.

Louise dons a cow costume in the film adaption of “Gypsy” on BroadwayHD.

This musical film follows Rose, the archetype of the domineering stage mother, as she pushes her daughters, June and Louise, to perform vaudeville acts out of her misguided desire for fame. It is obvious that Rose strays pretty far from the ideals of traditional femininity, as she rejects the ideals of marriage, yells at the men around her, and often employs brazen vocals. While my grandmother might rebuke such “unladylike” behavior, I do not find it troublesome. My issue with Rose is that she desperately attempts to enforce her own beliefs about sexuality on her children. To achieve what she believes will lead to success in show business, Rose forces her daughters to essentially suppress their burgeoning sexuality by pressuring them to act more youthful and, in Louise’s case, perform with a masculine appearance. It is problematic to tell women to suppress their sexuality or femininity as a means to gain power because it reinforces the idea that acting feminine is inferior. It suggests that those who embrace their femininity and sexuality are less empowered. However, women should not have to wash away their femininity to be taken seriously. Through Bob Mackie’s excellent costume design, Louise’s costumes become less and less feminine as she grows older. Starting with a more gender-neutral clown costume as a young child, she then must dress like the other boys on stage wearing trousers and overalls when performing behind June. Her loose pants and shirt buttoned all the way to her neck prevents people from viewing her silhouette. The cow costume she ultimately wears strips away any semblance of her figure.

Cynthia Gibbs, who portrays Louise, excels at revealing the pressure Rose places on her to act masculine in their vaudeville but also how Louise has internalized her stage persona and translated it into her real life. When wearing these costumes, she seems unsure of herself. The suppression of Louise’s sexuality is not just performed on stage but also permeates her everyday life. In their initial Vaudeville performance of the song “Let Me Entertain You,” Gibbs’ dancing appears highly robotic. She is stiff and unsure in her movements as she marches and waves her arm in front of her. Gibb’s constrained movements highlight the lack of freedom the character Louise has under the control of her mother, who essentially forces her into a masculine appearance. Later, when they enter the burlesque theatre, Rose calls the strippers “filth” before she realizes how she can benefit from the situation. This word choice highlights Rose’s belief that flaunting one’s sexuality is somehow dirty. Rose wants Louise to mask her sexuality as she believes showing it off will make her lose her respect and dignity. Herbie even walks out on Rose because he disagrees with Rose encouraging her daughter to essentially reduce herself in front of men.

Louise explores her sexuality in the film adaption of “Gypsy” on BroadwayHD.

Only when Louise truly embraces her sexuality does she transition into a more confident, empowered woman. When she dons a dress for the first time at the strip club, I felt like I was watching someone who just had cosmetic facial and breast enlargement surgery look at themself for the first time after the bandages have come off. I could feel the sexual tension between Cynthia Gibbs and the mirror. As she caresses her body, Gibbs’ choice to take a slight, not-so-subtle pause when holding her breasts highlights her newfound sense of identity as a woman. Jule Styne’s musical score perfectly reinforces Louise’s shift in self-image, as the soft violin music in the background oscillates at a high pitch, increasing feelings of tension. Then, the sound of a bell kicks, symbolizing her freedom. In high school, the ringing of the bell would mean I would finally be free from the horrors of calculus. By playing on these associations of a bell with freedom, Styne reveals the freedom Louise feels now that she has escaped her mother’s influence and can embrace her sexuality.

The dichotomy between the different performances of “Let Me Entertain You” convey the newfound empowerment Louise gains as she taps into her femininity and sensuality. In Gibb’s portrayal of Louise, the viewer can clearly observe how she gains ownership of her body. Her stiff, robotic movements from the past routine are gone; once dressed in a more feminine mannor, she begins to move much more naturally. Through Jerome Robbin’s choreographic expertise, she now exhibits greater musicality as she dances burlesque onstage. With shoulder rolls and shaking hips, Gibbs portrays Louise as being able to exhibit a more fine-tuned control over her movements. The link between the more sensual dancing and Louise’s bodily authority speaks to the way in which tapping into her femininity has granted her this greater autonomy.

Additionally, Louise begins to project her voice, a demonstration of her confidence in what she has to say. Sondheim’s lyrics in Louise’s new performance of “Let Me Entertain You” further highlight her empowerment. Louise states that she is “not a stripper” but rather “an ecdysiast, [which] is one who,/ or that which,/ sheds its skin.” While at first, I thought such language was just Louise’s excuse to avoid the stigma of stripping; but upon further inspection, I recognized the difference between being a stripper and ecdysiast. The term stripper evokes ideas of someone just taking off their clothes or “stripping” away part of them, reducing them in essence. Meanwhile, an ecdysiast “sheds its skin,” which implies that there is a new layer underneath. Rather than taking away part of oneself by stripping, the character of Louise views herself as taking off the old part of herself to expose new skin. Such nuances reveal how Louise sheds her more tomboyish persona in favor of tapping into a new part of herself. Rather than simply donning a new costume to perform her sexuality, she shows a part of herself that always existed but was just waiting to be revealed.

Director Emile Ardolino’s choice for Rose to hang the cow head in her daughter’s dressing room further speaks to this idea of using a costume as a sort of mask of one’s true self. Gibbs’ eyes glare as she firmly demands that her maid to take it down, emphasizing the repulsiveness Louise feels with this stark reminder of a time when she had to cover up her feminine identity. Just like she changed her name to “Gypsy Rose Lee,” Louise continues to reject what her mother laid on her. Now, Louise favors stripping, which she feels is the most honest, “stripped down” version of herself. As a burlesque performer, Louise has the autonomy to choose what she does or does not want to show, thus taking back the power of her own body.

For such a long time, like Louise, I would cover up. My high school dress code specifically stated that no “sexual-looking” clothing was allowed. We had to completely cover our shoulders, cleavage, stomachs, and thighs at all times. The dress code instilled within me a belief that I needed to maintain what they referred to as a “professional appearance” to be taken seriously. I remember Ms. Letchworth explicitly complimenting me for wearing a t-shirt under one of my dresses to show less skin, literally telling thirteen-year-old me that I looked so much more “respectable” than some of my peers who were “pushing the limits.” Yet, as I got to college, I came to the realization that people telling me what to wear to prevent me from being objectified felt just as misogynist. Thus, I was very impressed that Gypsy, despite the original book being written in 1959, created a progressive representation of sexuality, that women do not have to choose between embracing their sexuality and feeling empowered. Instead, Gypsy reveals how women can be both feminine and powerful.

Scarred bagel-girl

As a Boston middle-schooler, I learned to identify the complexity of a well-written character, one exhibiting multiple facets. Rounded characters exhibit multiple facets; they are split between identities. Tom Brady’s retirement and quick unretirement in 2022, for example, revealed his struggle with the idea that he might need to become a father/husband more than a Quarterback. The gothic classic, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde demonstrated that sometimes split identities can lead to many people’s death. In contrast, “flat” characters can be fully understood at a surface level and have little impact on the plot. Our teachers discouraged the writing of flat characters, and yet many men have done just that to their female characters. Fanny Brice, as played by Barba Streisand in the 1968 film rendition of Funny Girl, is a complex character plagued by conflicting identities. Is she a woman or a professional performer? This binary existed for Brice in 1910, as society assumed it was simply impossible be both. One identity tugs against the other to drive the story’s plot. When her identity as a performer exudes, she constructs her life independent of the men around her. However, when she follows her desires as a woman, her life becomes wholly dependent on her husband, Nick Arnstein (played by Omar Sharif). Fanny Brice is a powerful performer on stage, but her immense success could not give her what she has always desired–to be as beautiful as a rose.

            “Hello, gorgeous!” are the first words the audience hears Fanny exclaim. Speaking to herself in the mirror, Fanny tries to convince herself that she is pretty. Her backdoor entrance into a dressing room establishes her identity as a performer. Still, immediately, the focus of the audience shifts their attention towards her voice which compliments her own looks. Confirmation of her occupation as a performer, but not of her stardom, occur quickly when John, the stage manager, gives her a thirty-minute warning. Fanny thanks him and John asks about Mr. Arnstein – a character still unknown to the audience. Fanny does not know anything, and Emma walks in and asks the same question about Mr. Arnstein. At this point in the show, Fanny has not even been mentioned. She has referred to herself as “gorgeous”, but no one has named her.

Introductory lines from Funny Girl 1968

The film names Mr. Arnstein twice, and people seem to want to know where he is. To the audience, he is a person of greater importance than this insecure, nameless character. The scene continues with Emma revealing that Ziegfeld, the show’s producer, is waiting for Fanny– demonstrating her significance to the show. Yet, as Emma says this, Fanny is in awe of the fact that she is worth waiting for: that she has value. Quickly, however, the next scene transports the audience back to a pre-star/pre-Nick era with Fanny’s mom and family friends in a modest kitchen on Henry Street. Family friends parroting that Fanny is not pretty enough for Broadway sets up an “ugly duckling” motif and explains her insecurity. As if their point was not emphasized enough, they break out into a song aptly titled “If a Girl Isn’t Pretty.” The friends continue to barrage Fanny, singing that as a non-pretty girl, she will never attain success. Fanny responds confidently that the world will be stunned at her performing abilities, disregarding the comments about her looks. Fanny has internalized her ugliness and bets on her talent to compensate for her looks. At this point, “Hello, gorgeous” is not a phrase that Fanny can even imagine. The journey of accepting her beauty parallels her rise to stardom, yet the desire to have something unattainable ultimately grabs and holds her attention.

             Success is a matter of intrinsic ambition (if the American Dream is true) while beauty is in the eye of the beholder (does not depend on the American Dream). Fanny is rational and understands that talent is easier to attain than getting rid of her “skinny legs.” Her desire is palpable as she recognizes that the best way to showcase her abilities is to just get on stage. She auditions for the seemingly unimportant chorus girl position at a theatre run by Keeney, who eventually fires Fanny because of her looks. In this moment of rejection, Fanny understands that she is the only person who actually believes in her future. She quickly tries explaining the predicament in the way her Jewish New York heritage and my baking obsession know best: an analogy involving bagels and onion rolls. In her world, onion rolls are ubiquitous, and she implies that they are worse than the unknown Jewish delicacy– the Bagel. Fanny is a delicious bagel “on a plate full of onion rolls.”

Bagels that I made circa April 2022 while in Switzerland

Finding it impossible to succeed as the bagel, she pulls herself up by her bootstraps and bursts out into a song, “I’m the Greatest Star,” that displays her performance abilities through lyrics, her vocal range, comedic interludes, and the movement of her skinny legs. She starts off, not yet in song, displaying her “36 expressions” in their most juxtaposed manner. The producers easily ignore her, and she tries again to demonstrate her value as a bagel by outright singing, “’ ’Cause I’m the greatest star/ I am by far/ but no one knows it.” Unable to look at her anymore, Keeney walks her out, suggesting that beauty is more important than skill. It’s a simple message that has stood up well to the test of time.

Yet, Fanny won’t accept it. She rapidly shifts her tones and intonations like car gears as she the producer kicks her out, a seemingly final attempt to get a job. Standing outside, she begins to understand that she needs to hype herself up. The violin accompaniment shifts instantaneously from legato high notes to staccato low notes as she gathers herself-creating a sense of urgency for the audience. She powerfully jumps forward, pauses, and then steps forward and backwards signifying her breaking through the hesitation of rejection. At her first mention of her beauty–“Who’s an American Beauty Rose?–she searches for reasons to be confident. Running back inside, voice growing louder, the accompaniment of strings seems to reach the climax until she finds herself on the stage. The music pauses which allows Fanny to gather her thoughts and exhibit her beautiful voice without distractions. Fanny’s confidence on the stage allows the audience to see past her insecurities with her looks. She is jovial, and her movements and notes are fluid. The tone and rhythm repeatedly transform, demonstrating why she is the “Greatest Star.” Her performance ends with her collapsing in tears as she has given the theater one last shot to establish her identity as a performer, and “Bam!”

Fanny attempts to construct her life and success independently of what people around her say. Luckily, Eddie sees her and offers her a small role. Obviously, with Fanny’s ambition, she accepts. Ecstatic at the thought of being hired, she forgets her bagel status. Forgotten for a whole few seconds as we see her look ridiculous attempting to roller skate. Yet now, her ugliness isn’t her looks, it’s her clumsiness, and the audience loves her performance. It’s ridiculous enough to look purposeful and comical. With her comedic performative abilities, whether intentional or not, Fanny Brice solidifies her role on the stage and crafts her identity as a performer.

Love is empowering. Love is beautiful. However, what makes love absolutely mesmerizing for Fanny is that someone will love her even with her looks. Her ugliness is ingrained so deeply that as she attains stardom at the highest level, she must separate her role as a performer from feeling pretty. As a superstar, she could do whatever she wanted, and the crowd would eat it up (Remember, she is a delicious bagel). This only works because she is so innately funny–and she knows it. However, she doesn’t know how beautiful she is. The validation of others is the only way to certify the level of prettiness she desires. For a handsome and wealthy man to come and give her everything she feels like she is missing is simply life-altering. When she first meets Nick, she cannot help herself but blurt out, “Gorgeous!” calling to mind the first line of the play. They eventual marry, and Fanny works on convincing herself that she is as “gorgeous” as Nick. Yet, she always wonders if she is worthy of his love–does she have value? During their initial conversation, Nick drops that he thinks Fanny is a star while dallying with some beautiful girls in the background. In one conversation, Nick has given her the validation that she’s always wanted: Stardom, beauty, and romance. No wonder she fell in love.

“Fanny is a delicious bagel”

             Fanny thoroughly idealizes this first pseudo-romantic interaction, so it’s unsurprising that she pursues it. A single compliment was not enough to remove the ingrained feeling of inadequateness, which the audience sees when Fanny alters her beautiful bridal performance by stuffing a pillow under her dress for comedic effect. Premarital pregnancy was not favorable in the public’s eye in 1911. Yet, society understood very well how unfavorable it is, and so it is absolutely hilarious to the crowd. It’s important to note that Fanny’s inability to convince herself to sing a line about being beautiful indicates how deeply seeded her feelings are. Yet, Fanny’s stunt is pivotal as it leads Nick to sing directly about how he finds her attractive, potentially uprooting her feelings of shortcoming.

Nick’s song is fascinating as he does not call her beautiful but implies so by singing, “I want to be seen with you.” Analogous to the slow kneading required for a pristine bagel, Nick begins a series of flirtatious teases that draws Fanny and the audience closer to imagining a possible relationship. He comes to her neighborhood party and is cordial but leaves as soon as the idea of intimacy comes up. Eventually, he holds her chin, kisses her, and then quickly leaves and does not call back. They meet again by ridiculous chance, and he invites her for a private dinner. Nick calls her beautiful for the first at this extravagant private dinner, first by mentioning that her outfit looks “wonderful with [her] eyes” and then by outright saying “you look beautiful.” These compliments are accompanied by a sexual tension that makes Fanny feel awkward. They get into a screaming match and order dinner, and by then- the tension is sky high, and they break out into a song that sets up the nature of their relationship. “You are woman… You are smaller, so I can be taller!” Now not referencing her beauty or talent, but her gender, Fanny becomes uncomfortable and literally gets up and moves away. Yet he persists, “our friendship leaves something to be desired… you are woman, I am man/Let’s kiss.” She shivers, fans herself, saved only by the waiter’s knocking. Visibly uncomfortable, she loses all the power she’s earned on the stage. Through her verse, she attempts to convince herself, “Should I do the things he’ll tell me to?/ In this Pickle, what would Sadie do?” Sadie would do what the man wants to do as she is only his wife. As Nick has given Fanny a sense of beauty, Fanny finds herself wanting to be his Sadie more so than a Ziegfeld girl.

Fanny/Sadie

Fanny commands the stage and the performance on Broadway. Even the mighty Ziegfeld listens to Fanny. Through her identity as a performer, Fanny achieves everything she sets out to do as a performer. However, what she cannot get as a performer, is what she desires as a woman who has been scarred by insults about her appearance her whole life. With the career organized and successful, what is left to achieve is to be called beautiful by her husband. Nick provides that and allows her to flourish as his wife as she wants to. Although, years of mistreatment by her family and the industry push Fanny to constantly seek external validation about her beauty. This perpetual search leads Fanny to agree to leave the theatre if need be. At the end of the day, “you can’t take an audience home with you,” and Fanny establishes her agency with the decisions she wants to make. She is the producer, the stage manager, and the main character of her own life.

A Female Breadwinner??!! **GASP**

By Jasmine Jain

If you’re a musical theatre geek (like myself), surely the name Fanny Brice makes you light up. Fanny Brice is the leading lady in Jule Styne, Bob Merrill, and Isobel Lennart’s musical Funny Girl. The musical was first performed on Broadway in 1964, but the production I recently watched was filmed live on stage at Manchester’s Palace Theatre in 2018 under the direction of Robert Delamere and Michael Mayer. Ricky Milling edited the film, and did so beautifully through zoomed in and out panels of the actors. Funny Girl portrays the talented life of Fanny Brice (played by Sheridan Smith) with a side of love/heartbreak portrayed through her relationship with Nick Arnstein (Darius Campbell). In this rendition, Smith fantastically portrays Fanny’s character through her facial expressions, choreography, and acting talents. The music also helps craft Fanny’s character a loud and pompous, yet solemn at the same time. Merill (lyricist) and Styne (composer) worked hand in hand to craft the emotional music of Funny Girl. Through the addition of instruments, varying tempos, and repetitive melodies, they tell the story of Fanny in the most emotional and exciting way. Whether through the “I am” songs “Don’t Rain On My Parade” or “I’m the Greatest Star” or the hysterical “Sadie Sadie”, Funny Girl will always remain a classic. I say this, because Funny Girl presents the gender barrier between men and women in a way that makes it easy to understand, providing comic relief while also highlighting its seriousness.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/mediaindex?ref_=ttmi_ql_1 This is an image from IMDb.

Smith's Brice is fully confident in her talents and abilities, and she continuously breaks out of the status quo. Today we would look at Brice performing and would probably say something like “slayyyyy,” “you go girl” or even “she’s an independent womannnnn.” But, it pretty much goes without saying that back then in the 1900s, this was definitely not the case. People celebrated Fanny’s success, but the moment she overshadowed Nick Arnstein, everyone started to shake their heads. Fanny was the only one to not notice until her mother pointed out that she basically had her hands around Nick’s neck due to her success. Funny Girl is important because it shows an anomaly to the glorification of the American idea of feminine behavior. Gender and sexuality play a very big, and sometimes lucrative role in musical theatre, and especially within shows performed on Broadway.

Photo by Taylor Hallick on Pexels.com

There is a common image of the “perfect American woman,” and Fanny Brice offered a contrast to show the hypocrisy of the time, and even though that may not have been seen when it originally had come out. The effect of watching Funny Girl is seen within society very much so nowadays. Fanny Brice was performing under the talented Florenz Ziegfeld. She provided comical relief, and the theatre profited greatly off her talents. However, Fanny was different from the other Follies women. Ziegfeld presented a distinct image of Americanism in his shows by choosing the most objectively beautiful performers; Fanny served as a contrast to this idea. Ziegfeld was astounded by her ability to be successful while also being herself, and again, in modern days we actively look for this, but back then there was a certain look that was preferred by directors and men in general. We even see this through Fanny’s relationship with Nick. She begins to fawn over him, and he’s looked at as this suave gentleman who could never want to be with someone like herself. However, he chooses to be with Fanny even though he could most likely have his pick of any girl, which is an interesting contrast to what is expected of men like him during that time.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/mediaindex?ref_=tt_mv_close This is from IMDv.

Even though Nick seems like this amazing person at first, we start to see his personality as his relationship with Fanny begins to develop even more. Specifically, after Fanny agrees to go out with him, and the song “You Are Woman, I Am Man” is performed. The way that Sheridan Smith walks into the scene is hysterical. She walks in and is cracking all these jokes, and not acting as she’s “supposed to”. She presents herself as a strong woman because she refuses to just become enamored with his dreaminess, and demands that he not play with her emotions. During this time period, women were expected to plan their lives around men, and Fanny presents the opposite. Nick admits to being scared of Fanny which is also unusual, but eventually Fanny admits to not knowing when he will make “advances” which is when he goes right into the musical number. This song is intriguing to me, because Nick is trying to convince Fanny to participate in his “advances”, and we see her inner struggle between doing what she thinks she should do and what she wants to do in this situation. The lyrics that particularly stick out to me are as follows: 

“You are woman, I am man/ you are smaller, so I can be taller than”

These particular lyrics are interesting to me, because we see the gender stereotypes from the beginning where there is this idea that a man is greater and stronger and taller than a woman and he tries to feed this to Fanny (someone who doesn’t see the world this way), and thus begins her inner struggle of wanting him, but also not wanting him.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/mediaindex?ref_=tt_mv_close This is from IMDb.

The next set of lyrics I find entertaining is when Fanny begins to sing the following: 

“Isn’t this the height of nonchalance/ Furnishing a bed in restaurants?/ Well, a bit of dinner never hurt/ But guess who is gonna be dessert?”

This is when Fanny begins to crack jokes (as she typically does), and calls out male misogyny in a satirical way while also showing us the inner conflict she has between staying true to herself or being the woman she’s expected to be in this time period(submissive to men and what they want). I find it interesting that Fanny goes from singing this kind of a song and dives straight into “Don’t Rain on My Parade”, which is often noted as her “I am” song and also her expression of strength. Not only is this a shocking series of songs, but right after “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” Fanny goes into singing her song “Sadie, Sadie” which also is very different from the vibe of her “I am strong” song. I always find “Sadie, Sadie” to be the first point we see a huge change in Fanny’s character as she begins to fall deeper into the expectations of women at the time. She even calls herself “Ziegfeld's married lady” which allows for her new "characteristic" to be that she is married (the opposite of what she was known for, which was breaking the status quo).

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/mediaindex?ref_=tt_mv_close This is from IMDb.

Overall, I believe that the director (Robert Delamere and Michael Mayer) did a brilliant job with the way the performance was done to emphasize the gender stereotypes that eventually were soaked up by Fanny unintentionally. After discussing these songs and Fanny’s slow, but progressive, change to becoming more of the typical woman for Nick I also want to point out that Fanny was also still true to herself. I say this because Fanny knew how successful and talented she was throughout the entire show, and never once gave up performing. She also was the “breadwinner” between her and Nick which is what caused a lot of strife between the two of them. To be frank, I believe that the way Nick acted out towards Fanny helping him was immature, ungrateful, and narcissistic. However, this is also me responding to his behaviors as a 19 year old, “woke”, female in the modern world. Back then, Nick’s reaction to a woman being on top was not unusual, but still disappointing. It was normal for a man to feel upset and have his superiority feel diminished at the success of a female counterpart. This was exemplified in Funny Girl and in the modern world it feels like this amazing production can be viewed as a satire about the “old-fashioned” societal norms.

https://giphy.com/explore/old-fashion This Gif was found on Giphy.

The character Fanny Brice created by the musical authors (Merill and Styne) was mostly successful in presenting her as a strong, confident anomaly of a woman that struggles with her place as a woman in society. I also believe that through the way that the song list is set up the story makes her inner struggle between performing and being a good wife/mom even clearer. I also believe that the costumes (made by Victoria Toni) were successful in communicating the struggles that Fanny went through as we saw her dressed glamorously towards the end, but in the beginning of the show we saw her wearing more normal clothing that wouldn’t be identified as fashionable or glamorous. The music and the costumes worked hand in hand to present us with Fanny: the strong, yet troubled woman trying to find her way through a career with a difficult stereotype expected of her. Sheridan Smith also provided the audience with a version of Fanny that was paired with the expectations set by both musical authors and costume designers. Through her facial expressions, increase in confidence while performing, and increased maturity she was able to present us with a Fanny that was strong but also sensitive to what was expected of women.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/ This is from IMDb.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt8851198/mediaindex?ref_=tt_mv_close This is from IMDb.

To wrap up this long-winded assessment of gender and sexuality in Funny Girl (2018), I believe that people watching this today should be looking at this with eyes wide open as to how Fanny broke out of the gender stereotypes of the time, but also not take everything too seriously in terms of what was expected of her. I say this because it is easy for us to become wrapped up in our anger over the way men treated women in the early 1900s, but we shouldn’t look at this production as something to be angry about or “shun” the musical out of spite. Rather, we should view it as something that was terrible, but be proud that Fanny was brave enough to keep her confidence on the up-trend (for the most part), and we should look at it as an example of exactly what we don’t want our society to revert back towards. In absolutely no way am I saying that the way women were treated by men and others within society was right by any means. I really want to emphasize that this is still a struggle for modern women (gender equality), and we have made progressive strides but should continue to learn from the past (by watching shows like this) in order to correct our present times. Gender and sexuality is usually something that is touched on in almost every famous musical, and this is because it is something that is important to be aware of, and also to use it as a tool for learning and understanding what we as a society need to do in order to continue in the fight towards equality within the workplace, and life in general.

https://giphy.com/gifs/feminism-zooey-deschanel-feministic-rants-YRu57gFiFDplK This is from Giphy.

She Is Woman, He Is Man, I Want to Vomit

by Natalie Wright

For the first 19.5 years of my life, I existed in a state blissfully unaware of the plot of the 1968’s hit film Funny Girl. In this time (excluding, I suppose, the first few years), I held on to the childlike belief that the story was one of an unlikely star making her way in a male-dominated industry. This year that innocent dream shattered. 

The music is still incredible– “Don’t Rain on my Parade” remains one of the Best Songs of All Time. Barbra Streisand’s performance as Fanny Brice is just as amazing as people say. Her Oscar was well deserved. What was not deserved, however, was the film taking up two hours and thirty minutes of my life, not exploring Fanny Brice’s glass-ceiling-breaking career, but instead detailing the ins and outs of her relationship with a lackluster man. Apparently, Ray Stark, the producer and the real life Fanny Brice’s son-in-law, thought this an appropriate representation of a woman’s life.

Never is this horrific story choice more obvious than the cringe-inducing song, “You Are Woman, I Am Man.” The film paints the song as terribly romantic but in actuality enforces a strict gender binary and blurs lines of consent. Take a watch if you can stomach it. (Frankly, I’ve seen enough.)

Let’s take a look at the first section of the song, sung by Omar Sharif’s Nicky Arnstein:

You are woman, I am man.

You are smaller, so I can be taller than.

You are softer to the touch.

It’s a feeling I like feeling very much.

You are someone

I admire.

Still our friendship leaves something to be desired.

Doesn’t take more explanation than this.

You are woman, I am man.

Let’s kiss.

[Insert retching sounds here.] In a few sentences, Nicky Arnstein defines what it means to be a woman AND what it means to be a man. There’s no room for nonbinary folk in Mr. Arnstein’s eyes, or perhaps more accurately, in lyricist Bob Merrill’s eyes.

As he sees it: woman = smaller, softer; man = taller, rougher (by process of elimination). More than this, he defines being a woman as not being a man. He does not say “You are smaller, and I am taller than.” He says “You are smaller, so I can be taller than.” Women are thus defined by their relation to men, existing only so men can exist in contrast. Thus femininity is an identity of not being: not being tall, not being rough, and more than anything not being a man. 

However, this is not the only arbitrary rule Merrill applies to men and women. And I do not use the word ‘arbitrary’ lightly. If one defines gender by height and “softness,” my sandpaper elbows and above-average build have me looking a lot like ol’ Nicky Arnstein. 

Thus femininity is an identity of not being: not being tall, not being rough, and more than anything not being a man. 

No, the most crucial definition of gender that Arnstein introduces in this song is that women inherently desire men and men inherently desire women. Every woman and every man. The sheer simplicity of “You are woman, I am man. / Let’s kiss” erases the necessity of consent. If one defines femininity as an unfiltered attraction to men, then the consent of any woman, or any person a man deems feminine, is a given.

This is absolutely insane.

The song’s oversimplification perpetuates the myth that sexual attraction, specifically heterosexual attraction, is a fundamental truth of humanity. By Arnstein’s definition, a lesbian is not a woman, and a gay man is not a man. An asexual person, like myself, is none of the above. I am not less of a woman because I don’t want to have sex. Period. End of story.

But perhaps I’m overthinking what is contextually a moment between two romantic partners, not a statement on society’s gender norms. Or perhaps I’m thinking just the right amount. After all, director William Wyler must’ve known the cultural impact he was making; he’d already seen his power over defining society’s perception of gender in the reception of Audrey Hepburn’s debut film Roman Holiday (1953). Regardless, if a man said any of this nonsense to me, he’d notice pretty quickly that “softer” hands punch just as hard.

I am not less of a woman because I don’t want to have sex. Period. End of story.

 Now, this isn’t to say that Omar Sharif isn’t terribly charming and handsome in his performance. He is. In fact, his charm works so well that Streisand’s Fanny goes from being visibly unsure to head over heels in love.

This initial discomfort is not just textual– repeatedly Arnstein puts Fanny into positions in which she is clearly physically uncomfortable.

In one moment, Arnstein has Brice, for lack of a better word, trapped between him and the fireplace. He goes in for a kiss, from which she shrinks away. Three minutes later she’s melting into him after only some wishy-washy internal monologue and some kisses on the neck.

There are no discussions of boundaries or consent, and none are apparently needed as the story establishes this moment as a peak in their relationship, the beginning of their ensuing honeymoon period.

I know I’ve joked about this song making me feel sick, but really, it just makes me sad. Isobel Lennart, a woman, wrote the screenplay; she also wrote the book for the stage musical. She saw it fit to portray romance in this way. 

This film tells all the girls, who watch this movie to belt along with “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” that a man not respecting a woman’s boundaries is a good thing. It simultaneously tells young men not to take no for an answer, that a partner’s discomfort will subside if you push hard enough. This is not only infuriating, but it is actively harmful. 

I could go on and on about the sexism ingrained into Funny Girl– the demonization of women with prominent careers and financial independence springs to mind–but what really bugs me about this song, in particular, is its simplicity. 

This film tells all the girls, who watch this movie to belt along with “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” that a man not respecting a woman’s boundaries is a good thing. It simultaneously tells young men not to take no for an answer, that a partner’s discomfort will subside if you push hard enough.

That’s the point of the song– to oversimplify, to talk about a complicated thing like love in its most basic terms. In doing so, this song defines love as something that it doesn’t have to be. This version of love is unrelenting, male-oriented, and limited only to a specific subset of people (read: straight people). Arnstein and Brice’s relationship inevitably fails, but a plot-line of a doomed romance only works if the love was once there.

 If this is love, I don’t want it. 

Beautyism in Funny Girl

Ewon Kim

Photo by: https://www.amazon.com/Funny-Girl-Walter-Pidgeon/dp/B00005O3VD

Love is the most common emotion one can experience; one loves their family, friends, significant other, or pet dog. But what if love is not equal for everyone? What if some are unfamiliar with the concept of being loved due to their appearance? The 1968 musical film, Funny Girl—directed by William Wyler and written by Isobel Lennart—illustrates the impact of beauty in romance through its protagonist Fanny Brice. As a girl who did not meet the typical beauty standards, Fanny was completely new to the experience of being loved. Consequently, she was vulnerable to the romantic appeals of a man named Arnstein and ended up prioritizing her love for him more than her long-held professional dream.

Photo by: https://www.charactour.com/hub/characters/view/Fanny-Brice.Funny-Girl

The production instantly establishes Fanny as a girl with bland looks; in the opening production number “If a Girl Isn’t Pretty,” her mother and her friends comment about Fanny not being pretty enough to become one of the Ziegfeld girls. The film further emphasizes her lack of beauty by including the musical number “I’m the Greatest Star,” in which Fanny repeatedly clings to the manager for a chance to stand on stage, despite his judgment that she does not have presentable visuals. Though Fanny coincidentally earns an opportunity to perform, it is only a minor role of a roller skater. She only manages to remain on stage by becoming a comical character, embarrassing herself by making mistakes or being a pregnant Ziegfeld girl.

The film’s characterization of Fanny as a “not-so-pretty” girl makes audiences assume that she has never had the experience of being loved by someone. Fanny not only desires love in a romantic sense but also desires the love of an audience; even after embarrassing herself onstage, she reacts quite delightedly when she receives applause. To a “normal” girl like Fanny, having people be interested in you is a brand new feeling.

Audiences notice Fanny’s unfamiliarity with receiving affection even more when Arnstein appears. He straightforwardly expresses his interest in Fanny, which mesmerizes her enough to cause a drastic shift in her focus in life; even though Fanny is on the road to being a successful star after miraculously joining Ziegfeld’s Follies cast, she ditches her lifelong dream to marry Arnstein.

Video by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Yfh_CpA9Sk

Specifically in the production number, “Don’t Rain on my Parade,” the screenwriter emphasizes the dramatic effect Arnstein’s love has on Fanny. The lyrics depict Fanny’s determination to sacrifice her dream to stay with Arnstein. In fact, Fanny suddenly sings as if her life-long dream was to be in love with a man all along; she declares, “I’m gonna live and live now! / Get what I want, I know how!” as she rides the train that takes her to Arnstein.

The lines “Get ready for my love, ’cause I’m a ‘comer’ / I simply gotta march, my heart’s a drummer” also demonstrate Fanny’s blind curiosity for a romantic relationship. Without any prior experience, Fanny merely admires the fact that a man has an interest in her. To Fanny, this opportunity is just too precious to overlook.

On her way to meet Arnstein, the woodwind instruments under Fanny’s vocals play sequences of staccatos that climb up the scale, building an exciting tension for what Fanny will find at the end of her journey—Arnstein. This further highlights how vulnerable she is to his love.

During the number, Fanny wears the most conspicuous orange dress with an extravagant fur hat that implies her high socioeconomic status achieved by being a Ziegfeld girl. Despite possessing the power and freedom from financial abundance, she ignorantly chooses an impermanent relationship with a man over the stage she desired to stand on since she was young. The costume that emphasizes her capabilities represents the splendid aspects that Fanny potentially gives up for this relationship.

Photo by: https://meetinmontauk.com/tag/funny-girl/

The lyricist also displays Fanny’s decision as a bold action against the common standards of women, as she sings “Don’t tell me not to live, just sit and putter” and “Who told you you’re allowed to rain on my parade?” The actress exaggerates her pronunciation, as if she is yelling at the people who are thwarting her from quitting her job, which adds to the sense of breaking free and behaving strong. However, women traditionally have given up their place in the workforce and devoted their lives to supporting their husbands and family. From this ironic depiction, we can observe how the writers of this song—Jule Styne and Bob Merrill—purposefully characterized this decision to feel like a bold and romantic move for Fanny, as if it was not common to give up everything for love.

The lyricist further implies that Fanny has transformed, believing that love is the greatest goal that she can achieve: “I gotta fly once, I gotta try once.” This number enforces the standard belief that a woman needs to give everything to her romantic relationship in case someone might try to steal her man, revealing her desperation to keep Arnstein’s love, to the point where she believes she is making the right decision for herself.

This indirect “privilege” still prevails. I could also find myself in Fanny’s shoes, as I do not 100% match the current beauty standards set for women. Before being aware of the privileges one holds by being pretty, I strongly believed that it was only right for me to date someone who I truly liked. If I stepped into a relationship without sincerity, I would only hurt the other person by undermining their emotions. So I waited until the day I would magically find someone who liked me and who I also liked back. It was not easy to find someone who was willing to have a mutual relationship with me without meeting set beauty standards. Gradually, I doubted my initial belief, waiting for an opportunity to be in any romantic relationship, disregarding how I truly felt about the person. Without the privilege to choose who I love, I might instantly say “yes” to receiving any love. Therefore, I understand Fanny’s primitive tendency to prioritize Arnstein’s love over her own ambition in work.

Under Funny Girl‘s humorous lines and story about a talented yet ordinary girl achieving both her dream and love lies a premise that beauty standards cause subtle inequalities by giving more opportunities to certain people who meet the expectations. By portraying Fanny as a victim of this inequality, the musical alerts the audience that beautyism should not impede anyone from loving or being loved.

The Marital Power Struggle: Who Wins?

Funny Girl: a Broadway musical where the woman holds power over the man…or does she? The West End revival of the musical Funny Girl (2018; BroadwayHD) was directed by Michael Mayer and stars Sheridan Smith as Fanny Brice and Darius Campbell as Nick Arnstein. It biographizes the life and love of Fanny Brice through her journey of becoming, and then thriving as, one of the most famous Ziegfeld Follies performers. The question at hand…who held the power, Fanny or Nick? I’m going to take two songs from the musical and analyze them in an in-depth, systematic way, and see if I can convince you, the reader, to come to a conclusion.

First, in the song “Sadie, Sadie” from the second act, Fanny and Nick have just gotten married, and the song describes Fanny’s thoughts and plans for her new life as a wife. The lyricist, Bob Merrill, has Fanny sing: “Nick says nothing is too good for me,” which makes it seem as if she hasn’t believed she’s been deserving of nice things until a man came around and told her so. Fanny glorifies these pretty words from a man rather than believing in her own self-worth. Smith lets the lyrics do most of the talking during this number with very few deviations from relaxed, lackadaisical movements. This choreography further enhances her now being a married woman who is supposed to rely on her husband. Merrill even has the company sing similarly interpreted lyrics, as heard with “Not every girl can get herself/A guy who looks like Nick.” As an attractive male, Nick sits on a higher pedestal than the average looking woman with no regard to her success or her accomplishments. It’s as if Nick can do better than someone like Fanny or on the flip side, Fanny doesn’t deserve to be with someone like Nick; it’s an honor that he glanced at her at all, much less married her. Although Smith does put a comedic spin on the song with her exaggerated actions of her relaxed day-to-day activities as a wife and her over the top facial expressions that illustrate the bliss she feels about being married, it still doesn’t take away from the words of the song diminishing her to solely Nick’s wife, or a “Sadie” as the song puts it. Despite Fanny being the musical’s main character, who eventually rises to entertainment stardom, this particular song diminishes her into one thing: the average wife of an attractive man.

Sheridan Smith as Fanny Brice during the song “Sadie, Sadie” in the 2018 production of Funny Girl in the West End

Then, Mr. Arnstein, the businessman, is in need of sixty-eight thousand dollars so he can open a casino somewhere in Florida. He needs investors, but because he is in fact a father, and has to babysit his own kid so Fanny can go back to work and make money for the family (because he’s not making any), he’s out of luck. But who swoops in and saves the day? That’s right! Fanny. She provides him with his money because she claims that “[They] are in a real marriage/And what’s [hers] is [his].” He then suddenly starts singing “Temporary Arrangement,” beginning with the lyrics, “Please Fanny don’t hold so tight,” as if Fanny giving him money is somehow stifling. Campbell accentuates this with the discordance between each line of this part of the song and then with his head-shaking and how he moves his hands in an abrupt, authoritarian way when he sings “You’ve got to just set her straight.” The song emphasizes that his lack of money is only “a temporary estrangement/From the crystal dish and the silver knife.” The number includes a minute long dance break for Campbell where choreographer Lynne Page sets Campbell’s moves in a very smooth and suave way, matching the song’s lyrics and showing the audience how Arnstein wants to be presented, despite his less than ideal circumstances. In this case, Fanny is the provider, but Nick discredits her because his current financial position is only temporary; he never even thanks her for her contribution. The woman provides for the man, making him insecure.

Darius Campbell as Nick Arnstein at the end of the song “Temporary Arrangement” performed in the West End

In the first song, a man has power over a woman, and in second a woman has power over a man. But who really holds the power? Fanny is Nick’s wife, yet he barely acknowledges her help. Nick eventually leaves Fanny and their child, never to be heard from again, while Fanny continues performing with the Ziegfeld Follies as a famous comic, mourning her failed marriage to a man she’ll probably always love. Does Fanny being a divorcee make her any less exceptional both as a person and as a performer? Does Nick leaving Fanny cause his reputation to be ruined? When looking at who really had the power in the relationship, Nick seems to triumph. Despite him not being the financial provider, he still has the freedom to come and go as he pleases, which in the end he makes the choice to go indefinitely. This freedom stems from the fact that Nick is an attractive man, which automatically puts him on a pedestal in the society of that time. Fanny has the money and the fame, but she is lacking society standardized beauty, and she has the higher chance of getting hurt. As seen by her being left to be a single mother by the man she loves. Nick clearly has the power and the advantage in this relationship, where he can do with Fanny and her love as he pleases.

The Girl May Be Funny, But The Plot Is Not

Lindsey Carroll

If you’re a mezzo-soprano belter in musical theatre, chances are you’re familiar with the 1964 musical Funny Girl. In fact, it’s likely you have sheet music from the show in your collection — I know I do. “Don’t Rain on My Parade” is a song every mezzo should know, even if Barbra Streisand’s iconic show-stopping performance in the 1968 film adaptation has made it off-limits in the audition room. Still, if you can belt, you should know it. 

But there’s a song from the film even more taboo than “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The finale: “My Man.” Seriously, sing it at your own risk. The song is synonymous with Streisand’s performance, which clinched her Best Actress win at the 41st Academy Awards. Anyone listening to you sing it will instantly compare you to Streisand, and no one can sing it like Streisand. Trust me and save yourself the trouble. However, if you’re looking for a song to sing on your own time with an octave jump up to a Db5, be my guest. I find it impossible to resist breaking it out in the practice room every once in a while.

Barbra Streisand wins the Academy Award for Best Actress for her performance in Funny Girl. Photo courtesy of Barwood FIlms.

However, when singing “My Man,” I never think about the number’s cultural implications. The lyrics compel me to swear as a woman my devotion to my male partner, daring others to challenge me as I follow him to the ends of the earth. I will give up my career, my passion for performing because my love for my husband is stronger. Wait…what? I’m giving up my hard-earned, successful career as Fanny Brice, the headliner of the Ziegfeld Follies, to stay with my insecure husband? You’ve got to be kidding me. 

The addition of “My Man” as the finale to the film adaptation, a song not included in the original Broadway production, transforms Funny Girl from a musical about an empowered artistic trailblazer to one about a woman who is ultimately subservient to men — how disappointing. Why would director William Wyler put this song in the defining position to end Brice’s story? To counter Second Wave Feminism? To feature one of Brice’s most famous Ziegfeld numbers? To show everyone Barbra Streisand is one of the best musical theatre performers we’ll ever have? No matter the reasoning, the song, as well as Streisand’s performance, makes Funny Girl’s ultimate message one championing the “devoted wife” above all else: an antiquated and sexist idea. 

“My Man” transforms Brice from a strong woman making her own way in the world to one dependent upon the approval of a man — a feminist nightmare. 

The lyrics of “My Man,” translated from the work of Albert Willemetz and Jacques Charles, paint a picture of a woman absolutely submissive to her husband. Brice, one of the most successful performers of her time, sings “all my life is just despair/ but I don’t care/ when he takes me in his arms/ the world is bright,” sharing that her success means nothing to her without a man’s love. This sentiment sharply contrasts Brice’s repeated assertion that she wants to be “the greatest star” the world’s ever seen. Additionally, Brice sings “what’s the difference if I say/ I’ll go away/ when I know I’ll come back/ on my knees one day.” These lyrics vividly depict a woman so beholden to a man that she will metaphorically crawl back on her knees to him no matter what. Lyrics like “whatever my man is/ I am his” further emphasize how Brice will stand by her husband even when he treats her poorly. With these words, “My Man” transforms Brice from a strong woman making her own way in the world to one dependent upon the approval of a man — a feminist nightmare. 

Composer Maurice Yvain’s score for the piece supports Brice’s transformation. Romantic mezzo-piano violins set the tone at the beginning of the song, encouraging the audience to listen carefully and believe Brice’s words. The score repeatedly fades throughout the song, allowing breathier vocals to dominate, forcing the audience to give their full attention to the lyrics. As the third verse begins, Yvain adds staccato snare drums and horns to the instrumentation, creating a bombastic atmosphere that captivates the audience as the vocalist soars into a forte full-chest belt. A rallentando before the final few lyrics imbues the song with drama and suspense that captures the audience in the performer’s emotional world. Every musical choice furthers the storytelling provided by the song’s lyricism.

An instrumental version of “My Man” with Streisand’s vocals edited out.

Streisand’s “My Man” is one of the most iconic musical theatre performances because her acting and vocals spellbindingly convey Brice’s devotion to her husband. Before she begins singing, Streisand shows us a new side to Fanny — she is hesitant and unwilling to make eye contact with the audience, nervous to shed her theatrical persona to become vulnerable. These acting choices clue in the audience that this is the “real” Fanny singing, and they should heed her words. Throughout the first verse, Streisand blends her speaking and singing voices to add intimacy to the song, specifically speaking the line “I don’t care” as she chokes back tears; it is obvious how much “her man” means to her. Streisand produces actual tears as the song continues, infatuating the audience. As the third verse begins and the instrumentation picks up, Streisand takes more space physically and vocally, challenging the audience to get in the way of her devotion. With an octave jump from Db4 to Db5 on “alright,” it is impossible to focus on anything else. Streisand (and Brice) become completely lost onstage during the final sustained note, singing for themselves rather than for the audience. With this performance, one is unable to deny the conviction behind Brice’s commitment to her husband. 

Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice performing “My Man.”

The combination of lyrics, music, and performance creates an unforgettable finale, and the song’s message is difficult to forget. Brice is a woman undeniably loyal to her husband, willing to give up everything she has built to stand by him no matter what he does or how he treats her. She transforms from a confident performer, willing to do whatever it takes to achieve stardom, to a wife focused only on maintaining her marriage and gaining her husband’s approval. This is a wildly disappointing character arc for an icon of the Great White Way. While it’s hard for me to ignore the sexist implications of “My Man,” I must admit — damn, the song’s fun to sing.

Provoked and Triggered: Content Warnings and Student Spectators

By Christin Essin

As a theatre studies professor at Vanderbilt University, I regularly assign attendance at theatrical performances to my students, and this May I had the opportunity to design a course completely around live performance. Each summer, Vanderbilt offers a series of “maymesters”—month-long intensives held in international locations. During the spring, I spent many hours researching productions and booking tickets for the “Theatre in London” maymester, including performances at a variety of commercial, state-sponsored, and independent venues. Such a trip, I determined, required a full day in Stratford-upon-Avon to see the classical offerings of the Royal Shakespeare Company (RSC).

I landed nearly sold-out tickets for a Saturday matinee of John Vanbrugh’s The Provoked Wife, directed by Phillip Breen, and same-day evening performance of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew, directed by Justin Audibert. I had familiarity—albeit no fondness—for Shrew, but I hoped that Audibert’s “reimagined 1590 England” as a matriarchy and casting “Petruchia” as a woman would generate a rich post-show discussion. While not familiar with Vanbrugh’s play, I was excited for students to see a Restoration comedy performed by such a skillful ensemble, and the RSC’s website promised that Breen’s “comedy Midas touch” would enliven this “romp that shocked seventeenth century society.

In my rush to book tickets, however, I did not think through the possible repercussions of Vanbrugh’s play. When I teach Restoration drama in my theatre history classroom, I regularly assign Aphra Behn’s The Rover; my syllabus includes a content warning (or “trigger warning”) because the plot hangs on the threatened rape of one of the female characters by multiple male characters. Teaching on a residential college campus, I am confronted daily with reminders that sexual assault and rape continue to be the lived reality of my students. If they are going to confront violence, even on the page, I want them to be alert rather than shocked, to be able to recognize early warning signs—a raised voice or grabbed wrist—so they can question the necessity of its deployment as a rhetorical or narrative devise. Still, if they find themselves triggered while reading a play, they can put it down or even throw it across the room (as I did in graduate school when reading Ben Jonson’s Volpone). But, as my students’ experience with the RSC’s Provoked Wife reminded me, escaping representations of sexual violence at a live performance means having to wade through a crowd packed into rows of seats, fielding glances of surprise or frustration from those disrupted.

Responding to Gendered Violence

Seven students, one teaching assistant, and I journeyed to Stratford-upon-Avon after a busy first few days in London; we had attended the revivals of both Caryl Churchill’s Top Girls and Stephen Sondheim’s Follies at the Royal National Theatre and Inua Ellams’s new play The Half God of Rainfall at the Kiln Theatre. As I settled in to the matinee performance of The Provoked Wife, I was encouraged. Actor Natalie Drew masterfully delivered Vanbrugh’s playful Restoration-era prose and threw mischievous glances even to those seated in the Swan Theatre’s second gallery, inviting us into the world of the play. Alexandra Gilbreath, playing Lady Brute, also dazzled and charmed as the wife of boorish Sir John Brute (Jonathan Slinger). Being familiar with Restoration comedy, I was not surprised when Vanbrugh’s plot used threats of violence against Lady Brute to move the action forward. But I was unsettled by the rough viciousness with which Brute took his wife by the ear and dragged her offstage in act one.

Escaping representations of sexual violence at a live performance means having to wade through a crowd packed into rows of seats, fielding glances of surprise or frustration from those disrupted.

To quell my rising anger, I made mental notes to address the violence in the post-show discussion with students. I could ask how the play presented actors and spectators an opportunity to reflect on questions of gender and power, or how Vanbrugh’s playful use of language—“Brute”—contrasted with Breen’s choice to physicalize the character’s brutality to such an extreme. I reminded myself to emphasize the purely representational nature of the stage violence and suggest that a top-notch fight director would choreograph the movement to give the actress control, despite its opposite appearance.

Certainly, the same discussion would give us an opportunity to contrast this production’s realistic violence with the more theatrical mode of storytelling used by actors in The Half God of Rainfall. Ellams’s play, performed by Rakie Ayola and Kwami Odoom, drew from oral traditions in Nigerian culture to tell the story of Demi, a half god born from Zeus’s rape of his mother, Modupe. Director Nancy Medina gave Ayola full control over telling Modupe’s story; she narrated rather than dramatized the violence, standing solo beneath a spotlight and emphasizing Modupe’s anguish rather than Zeus’s wrath.

Rakie Ayola in The Half God of Rainfall at the Kiln Theatre. Photo by Dan Tsantilis.

One of the students beside me had shed silent tears, clearly affected, and when the lights came up, they gushed their approval. I guessed that this student had experienced some level of trauma connected to sexual assault, and I was glad that the performance had given her an emotional outlet and safe space to grapple with the questions raised.

Unfortunately, I found the same student crying in distress against the back wall of the Swan during The Provoked Wife’s act two rape scene. The RSC’s promotional materials described Sir Brute’s character as a “tedious drunk,” evoking the classical image of a less merry Falstaff or less ribald Sir Toby Belch. But what we saw was a convincing portrayal of a belligerent, malicious alcoholic who staggered on stage before roughly throwing his wife on a table, bending her over, and ripping away her skirts. Performed hyper-realistically, the rape was shocking in its brutality, and the scene contrasted significantly with the playful theatricality that began the production. Writing for the Guardian, Michael Billington praised both Slinger’s performance and Breen’s direction of the scene that “rightly does nothing to soften Brute’s attempted rape of his wife” to realize this “unsparing portrait of a soured relationship.” Rightly or wrongly, the scene became unbearable for my student and myself to watch.

While I was conscious of my next action, I do not remember making the decision to stand, knowing only that the explicit violence had provoked my fury. Despite being fully visible to others on the front rail of the second level, I left my seat, wondering only briefly how I would explain myself to my students before finding one crying against the back wall. “Do you want to leave?” I asked, worrying less about my volume because their distress was now more important than interrupting the performance. They signaled “No, I’ll be okay,” but instead of returning to my seat, I kept walking to the exit.

Being triggered is more than merely being offended by content or feeling uncomfortable with ideas that contradict someone’s beliefs; it is a physiological response to external stimuli caused by past trauma, seemingly uncontrollable and often unpredictable.

I paced the lobby for a minute before the door opened again, and my student, still crying, joined me, followed by two other students. As an authority figure who had walked out of the theatre, I had given them permission to do the same. Knowing my own tears were imminent, I suggested that we go outside for some fresh air.

Current statistics suggest that at least one of the eight students I had brought to the performance is a survivor of sexual assault. But in that moment, I had three standing beside me, expressing, through a mix of anger and tears, that the performance had triggered some level of past trauma. To the RSC’s credit, when I approached the box office to return half of our tickets for that evening’s performance of Shrew—giving students the option to skip a second round of domestic abuse—they were incredibly accommodating.

Content Warnings and Triggered Responses

Had the RSC offered a content warning, I might have made different decisions about my students’ viewing experience. In his review of The Provoked Wife for Broadway World, Gary Naylor wondered “how long it will be before trigger warnings are required for works like these—it would be a sad day indeed, but I suspect it’s coming.” Naylor’s sadness over trigger warnings echoes many sentiments I have encountered recently, alongside grumblings about political correctness run amok and the regrettable coddling of the millennial generation. The increasing prevalence of trigger warnings in professional theatres is a trend, argued Michael Paulson in the New York Times, “bubbling up from college campuses.” But plenty of my colleagues who teach in theatre departments around the United States remain skeptical about their use.

My department has raised the possibility of providing content warnings on lobby displays and in programs, but the issue remains unresolved. Faculty opposing their use worry about lessening the impact and spoiling the experiences of spectators. In Paulson’s essay, Joseph Haj of the Guthrie Theater argued: “As grown-up people, we should be able to grapple with difficult ideas together,” and Suzie Medak of the Berkeley Repertory Theatre asked: “What’s the point of experiencing art if you don’t expect to be surprised?”

What my students and I experienced at the RSC was not an aversion to being surprised or unwillingness to grapple with difficult ideas. Being triggered is more than merely being offended by content or feeling uncomfortable with ideas that contradict someone’s beliefs; it is a physiological response to external stimuli caused by past trauma, seemingly uncontrollable and often unpredictable. My past traumatic event not only radically changed my perspective on the world but also changed the biochemistry of my body, as I now manage symptoms of depression and anxiety. People’s experiences with trauma differ widely, but many suffer symptoms—growing tension, quickening of breath, tears welling in eyes—that make sitting quietly in a theatre impossible. Whether one stays or exits, disruption becomes inevitable, adding to that person’s distress.

The debates around trigger warnings largely neglect an acknowledgement of traumatic response as valid justification, focusing instead on less compelling excuses of ideological bias or discomfort. Do opponents believe that the relatively small number of potential spectators who legitimately need a warning does not justify inconvenience to a majority who want a performance experience sans “spoilers?” These critics perhaps need a reminder of the current statistics verifying high rates of sexual assault or a recap of the #MeToo movement that gained momentum from the shocking abundance of survivors who gave voice to their previous trauma.

The debates around trigger warnings largely neglect an acknowledgement of traumatic response as valid justification, focusing instead on less compelling excuses of ideological bias or discomfort.

Responsible Warnings and Ethical Staging

Had the RSC provided a content warning, would I have alerted my students? Probably. Would I or they have decided not to attend? Probably not. Would the warning have prepared us differently—preempting our distress or dulling our fury? Maybe. The Kiln Theatre posted a content warning on their website for The Half God of Rainfall. But my students and I ultimately felt this was unnecessary; the playwright, director, and actors had taken the care of survivors into account with the creation and production of the piece. Created in “solidarity with women who have spoken against or stood up to male abuses of power in all its forms,” Ellams’s play helped spectators “grapple with difficult ideas together,” including sexual violence, but in a manner that honored and gave voice to survivors. Is it unfair to compare representations of sexual violence from a dramatist writing in the seventeenth century against one writing today against a burgeoning #MeToo movement? Perhaps. But both were available simultaneously to the British public during this summer season, and Breen and Medina had the same charge to translate these stories for a contemporary audience. The production that provided a warning was the one that needed it least.

This is not to say that I specifically advocate for the use of content warnings in theatres, much less their requirement, as Naylor predicts in his “sad day” scenario. The current debate over content warnings obscures a more necessary discussion about the ethics of producing theatre for a changing spectatorship that refuses to turn a blind eye to abuse against the disempowered. The more significant comparison between these recent RSC and Kiln offerings is not who provided a content warning but who produced a compassionate representation of women suffering abuse: the classical text staged realistically to shock audiences into remembering a violent past or the new play staged theatrically to help audiences understand cycles of abuse through a retelling of classical mythology.

Clearly, I am partial to Ellams’s text, but I can also imagine a performance of a Restoration play in which a content warning is superfluous because the production team honored and gave voice to the perspective of the abused; I can imagine a season selection meeting in which producers give the same attention to the ethics of representing violence as they do to representing race, gender, and ethnicity; I can imagine a department meeting in which the discussion to hire a fight choreographer necessarily prompts a consideration of which characters continually bear the brunt of stage violence and whether our production choices contribute to the silencing of their voices or suffering. (Charlene Smith’s recent essay, “Staging Sexual Assault Responsibly,” gives productive shape to these imaginings.)

In the meantime, as an educator and—not insignificantly—as a consumer who purchases blocks of theatre tickets on a regular basis, I will show preference towards producers who provide guidance and warnings to those who need them. Because my courses regularly require attendance at performances, I feel ethically bound to provide my students with such information and give them permission to leave if that is how they need to take care of themselves. Unlike Naylor, finding a content warning posted on a theatre’s website would not be a sad day for me; it would signal that the organization’s artistic leaders are compassionate people with respect for audience members who need a different kind of viewing experience.

christinessin