Film Review: Cabaret (1972)

Certain films transcend their medium to become encapsulated symbols of specific historical moments, often through their ability to distill complex socio-political realities into digestible narratives. These works may draw from direct historical observation or emerge decades later, reshaping collective memory into a palatable form. Cabaret (1972), directed by Bob Fosse, is the quintessential example of this phenomenon, occupying a singular position in cinematic history as a cultural shorthand for the decadence and impending doom of Weimar Germany. Its blend of musical spectacle and political allegory has cemented its reputation as a landmark of 1970s cinema, even as its simplifications and omissions invite scrutiny.

The film’s origins trace back to the lived experiences of Christopher Isherwood, a young English writer who arrived in Berlin in the late 1920s. Seduced by the city’s hedonistic nightlife and its embrace of sexual liberation—particularly its tolerance of homosexuality—Isherwood documented his encounters with figures like Jean Ross, a free-spirited cabaret singer and aspiring actress. Ross’s persona directly inspired the character of Sally Bowles in Isherwood’s 1937 novella Goodbye to Berlin, later expanded into a full-length novel. This foundational text underwent multiple adaptations: a 1951 Broadway play titled I Am a Camera, a 1955 film starring Julie Harris, and eventually a Tony-winning 1966 Broadway musical written by John Kander, Fred Ebb, and Joe Masteroff. Fosse’s film, faithful to the stage version, transposed the story into a cinematic framework, though its deviations from Isherwood’s original vision would later spark debates about historical fidelity.

The plot unfolds in 1931 Berlin, where the nominal protagonist, Brian Roberts (Michael York), a British academic, arrives to complete his doctorate. Settling into a boarding house, he earns money by teaching English. Among his lodgers is Sally Bowles (Liza Minnelli), an American expatriate chasing stardom in Berlin’s cabarets. Struggling to make ends meet, Sally performs at the Kit Kat Klub, a venue where grotesque spectacle and risqué performances dominate the stage. Her romantic entanglements with Brian—a bisexual man initially reluctant to commit—and the wealthy Baron Maximilian von Heune (Helmut Griem) form the emotional core of the narrative. When Maximilian abruptly departs, Sally discovers she is pregnant, unsure of the father. Brian proposes marriage, but Sally, rejecting domesticity, chooses an abortion. Meanwhile, the political backdrop darkens: Nazis gain traction, and Jewish characters like Natalia Landauer (Marisa Berenson), Brian’s pupil and the daughter of a wealthy family, face growing hostility. Natalia marries Fritz Wendel (Fritz Wepper), a gigolo who hid his own Jewish identity, while Brian, disillusioned, decides to flee Berlin. Sally remains, now entertaining Nazi Brownshirts at the Kit Kat Klub.

Despite its acclaim, Cabaret’s musical numbers are its weakest element. Unlike the stage version, where songs advanced the plot, Fosse’s film embeds them within the Kit Kat Klub’s performances, rendering them diegetic. Though choreographed with Fosse’s signature angular energy—earning him an Academy Award for Best Director—the songs often feel detached from the narrative. The club’s performers, including Joel Grey’s Master of Ceremonies, are visually grotesque, with exaggerated makeup and costumes that evoke a carnival of decadence. Only Minnelli’s performances, particularly in “Cabaret” and “Maybe This Time,” transcend the club’s artificiality, anchoring the film’s emotional resonance. The musical sequences, while vibrant, serve more as commentary on Weimar’s moral decay than as compelling entertainment, a deliberate choice that underscores the era’s dissonance between surface glamour and underlying despair.

The film’s most iconic moment, however, lies outside the cabaret. In “Tomorrow Belongs to Me,” a Hitler Youth member (Oliver Colignon, voiced by Mark Lambert) performs a patriotic anthem in a rural beer garden. Initially a tender rendition, the song spirals into a communal frenzy as ordinary patrons join in, their faces lit with nationalist fervour. This scene crystallizes Cabaret’s central thesis: the ease with which civilised societies can succumb to ideological extremism. The transition from individual to collective fervour mirrors historical patterns, from Weimar Germany to modern far-right movements capitalising on social media’s amplification of grievances. The song’s modern-day adoption by European far-right groups underscores its chilling prescience, illustrating how Cabaret’s critique remains urgently relevant.

Beyond its musical segments, the film’s dramatic scenes are its greatest strength. Fosse employs New Hollywood’s liberated approach to explore previously taboo subjects, notably Brian’s bisexuality and the boarding house’s transvestite performers. Though the film avoids explicit depictions of same-sex relationships, its acknowledgment of homosexual desire was groundbreaking for 1972, cementing its status as a gay iconography touchstone. Liza Minnelli’s Sally, with her androgynous allure and defiant independence, became a cultural symbol of nonconformity, resonating deeply with previously marginalised audiences. The interplay between personal relationships and political decay—such as Brian’s fraught discussions with anti-Semitic lodgers or the Kit Kat Klub’s shift to overtly anti-Jewish programming—elevates the narrative beyond melodrama into a meditation on moral complicity.

Cabaret’s portrayal of Nazi ascendancy is both incisive and reductive. It illustrates how ordinary Germans gradually accepted extremism, from the casual bigotry of Brian’s peers to Natalia’s desperate marriage to Fritz, a man who hides his identity to survive. Yet the film’s greatest weakness lies in its historical oversimplifications. Brian, meant to embody Isherwood’s detached observer, is recast as a politically active figure confronting Nazis on the street—a stark contrast to Isherwood’s apolitical stance. Similarly, Sally’s bohemian libertinism overshadows the real Jean Ross, who later became a Communist activist and journalist. Most critically, the film neglects Germany’s economic collapse—unemployment and shattered faith in democracy—that drove citizens toward Hitler’s promises. By focusing on cultural decadence and individual moral choices, Cabaret risks reducing Nazism’s rise to a mere consequence of Weimar’s excesses, sidelining the systemic crises that made extremism palatable.

These omissions invite criticism, yet they also highlight the film’s deliberate artistic choices. ?Cabaret prioritises metaphor over historical precision, framing the Weimar years as a cautionary tale about complacency in the face of tyranny. Its blend of hedonism and impending doom creates a haunting duality, capturing the era’s paradox of hedonistic liberation and existential dread. While its deviations from Isherwood’s work and factual record are undeniable, the film’s power lies in its ability to transform personal stories into universal allegory. Decades after its release, Cabaret is not just as a relic of 1970s cinema but also a stark reminder of how societal rot festers beneath glittering surfaces—and how easily hope can be replaced by ideology. Its flaws, like its strengths, are inseparable from its ambition to distill a complex era into a single, searing cinematic experience.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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