All That Jazz Review: The Timeless Struggle for Identity in Art and Life

By. Kai Swanson | swansonkai0@gmail.com

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Despite the title, Bob Fosse’s All That Jazz is less a film about the glamor of showbiz than it is a frenzied pirouette around the obsessions and despairs of its own creator. Fosse, through his alter ego Joe Gideon (played with a seductive weariness by Roy Scheider), choreographs a cinematic ballet that questions, “For whom and why do we toil?” It’s a film that dances on the knife’s edge between brilliance and self-destruction, funny enough much like the characters in Jean-Luc Godard’s Pierrot le Fou, which Fosse references with Alka-Seltzer bubbles in the film’s opening montage. Fosse’s film, too, bursts bubbles with moments of fleeting beauty and existential dread, capturing the essence of a society where life is often staged, and true love, outside of for oneself, is a scripted affair.

Gideon’s daily routine—playing Vivaldi, taking Visine, Alka-Seltzer, and Dexedrine, and psyching himself up with "It’s showtime, folks!"—is a ritualistic testament to his driven, self-destructive nature. His ex-wife, Audrey Paris (Leland Palmer), involved in the show but disapproving of his behavior, and his girlfriend, Katie Jagger (Ann Reinking), alongside their daughter Michelle (Erzsebet Foldi), represent the fragments of his fractured personal life. These relationships are juxtaposed with his flirtations with the Angel of Death, Angelique (Jessica Lange), symbolizing his constant dance with mortality.

All That Jazz stands as a quintessential musical film, seamlessly integrating sound and visuals while understanding the medium's power and limitations. Like Fellini’s 8 1/2, it is introspective and critical, commenting on the creative process itself. Fosse acknowledges the capability of cinema to transcend and transform, presenting a story as much about the artistic merits and boundaries of film as it is about the life of its troubled protagonist.

However, much like 8 1/2, All That Jazz also exposes a problematic portrayal of women, encapsulated in Angelique (Jessica Lange), the Angel of Death. This character alludes to the Madonna-whore complex prevalent in both films, reflecting a dichotomy rooted in male film fantasy where women characters are seen only as caretakers—like his girlfriend Katie, ex-wife Audrey, and daughter Michelle—or as objects of desire, represented by the dancers, numerous lovers, and even Angel of Death herself. The film is cutting edge in its cinematic storytelling, yet it still has simplistic roles within a patriarchal dramatic framework, reflecting an inability to perceive women characters as anything beyond mothers, caretakers, or sexual objects. 

Fosse doesn’t shy away from exposing the darker sides of Gideon’s character. His numerous affairs and frequent sexual misconduct are depicted with a nonchalance that starkly contrasts his moments of vulnerability, especially in his conversations with Katie, revealing his deep-seated insecurities. Here, Alan Heim’s editing is particularly noteworthy, foreshadowing Gideon’s inevitable demise through rapid cuts that mirror his frantic life pace.

The film’s theatrical interludes and soundtrack elevate these personal conflicts into a spectacle that feels both intimate and expansive. Dance scenes serve as climaxes to Gideon’s psychological unraveling, reducing his life to a series of performances where genuine connection is choreographed, and his only true audience is himself. The high point of his artistic expression is also his point of existential crisis.

In its final moments, after several frustrating false endings, the film presents a death fantasy sequence that encapsulates how Fosse himself wished to bow out: not quietly, but with a spectacular homage to classical Hollywood musicals. The 1979 Gene Kelly-style spectacle reveals both the grandeur and grotesqueness of showbiz. Fosse's inclusion of a stand-up act on TV points to an era of media convergence, where the life of an artist is commodified for the masses, their creative spirit suffocated by profit motives.

Strangely, All That Jazz resonates more with contemporary audiences due to our increasing familiarity with how public figures' lives—and deaths—are monetized. In the age of social media’s chokehold on reality and entertainment (are they even separate anymore?), the intense online circulation of tribute posts, memorial merchandise, and digital memorials following the deaths of celebrities highlights a culture adept at capitalizing on demise. Platforms harness these moments, illustrating that in some ways, death can be more profitable than life.

In the end, All That Jazz is not just a reflection on death or the dark side of human nature. It is an introspective look at what it means to live on the edge of one’s passions and fears, making art that is as destructive as it is beautiful. Bob Fosse knew his medium, manipulated it, and in All That Jazz, left a piece that dances, quite literally, on his grave. A fitting tribute, and a poignant reminder of the cost of genius in a world that often values the spectacle over the creator.

I decided to write this review because All That Jazz had been recommended to me for years, often with the observation that I share similarities with Joe Gideon. While I'm flattered by the comparison, I see a distinction in our workaholic tendencies. My exhaustion stems from a relentless pursuit of storytelling and filmmaking, driven by a need to prove that I am more than the reductive dichotomy of Madonna and whore. Is this film problematic? Absolutely. But should we avoid it due to its gendered dynamics? No, it warrants discussion rather than dismissal. All That Jazz serves as a cultural artifact, illustrating both our progress and the distance we still need to cover to reach a point where women can inhabit roles like Joe Gideon and not just Joe’s Angel of Death (Angelique), Joe’s girlfriend (Katie), Joe’s ex-wife (Audrey), or Joe’s daughter (Michelle).

Side note: I’m honestly curious, does any film starring a woman or non-binary character dive into a character study as rich and intense as this? Darren Aronofsky’s Black Swan and Paul Verhoeven’s Elle come close, portraying the complexities of their protagonists with gripping psychological depth, but neither protagonist is as delectable or likable as Gideon—or as Fosse directing Scheider performing Fosse under the name of Gideon. Who will step into these dance shoes next? Are these kinds of dance shoes even in production anymore?

Crew:

• Director: Bob Fosse

• Producers: Robert Alan Aurthur, Wolfgang Glattes, Daniel Melnick

• Writer: Robert Alan Aurthur, Bob Fosse

• Choreography: Bob Fosse

• Casting: Howard Feuer, Jeremy Ritzer

• Cinematography: Giuseppe Rotunno

• Editing: Alan Heim

• Sound Design: Stan Bochner, Jay Dranch, Bernard Hajdenberg

• Music: Ralph Burns

• Production Design: Philip Rosenberg

• Costume Design: Albert Wolsky

• Makeup/Hair: Fern Buchner, Romaine Greene

Cast:

• Roy Scheider as Joe Gideon

• Jessica Lange as Angelique

• Leland Palmer as Audrey Paris

• Ann Reinking as Kate Jagger

• Cliff Gorman as Davis Newman

• Ben Vereen as O'Connor Flood

• Erzsébet Földi as Michelle Gideon

For more information about above the line and below the line crew, here is a link to the film’s IMDb page.