From Fosse to Ari: The Origin of Ariana Grande’s “yes, and?” Video
As long as there have been artists, it’s pretty safe to say there have been critics. The relationship between the two is a complicated one, for it’s the artist who, in an act of vulnerability, steps into the arena (often literally) to present the creation, and with that, comes the (welcome or unwelcome, hopefully at least constructive) critique from the sideline.
An artist who recently commented about this relationship is Ariana Grande, via her latest music video for “yes, and?” from her seventh studio album, Eternal Sunshine, which saw the light of day on March 8. The track’s sound evokes classic piano and hi-hat ‘90s dance music, while the video treatment harkens back to a stylish ‘80s music video and even further back to an iconic ‘70s movie musical, so therefore, Ari’s video is an homage to an homage. Let’s put on our dancing shoes and retrace our steps:
One of the best depictions of this artist-critic exchange was featured in Bob Fosse’s 1979 semi-autobiographical musical-drama, All That Jazz. Broadway director and choreographer, Joe Gideon (Roy Scheider essentially portraying Bob Fosse) is burning the candle (and many cigarettes) at both ends, trying to cast and create a new show, plus complete the editing of a film, all while barely co-raising his young daughter, and popping a lot of pills.
The new show that Gideon is working on entitled, NY/LA, a loose reference to Fosse’s very own, Chicago, features a musical number about airline travel called “Take Off With Us” (a cheeky title already filled with foreshadowing). Gideon invites a few suit-wearing financial backers to preview the song and dance, which starts out with the character of a purser (Sandahl Bergman), along with her crew of dancing flight attendants, touting the exceptional service they will bestow up their passengers (“They only live to service you...”). The first half of the performance is bubbly, which garners smiles, even a round of applause midway through from the straight-laced observers, but unbeknownst to them, there’s a second half that suddenly turns steamy (literally), with one of the dancers welcoming all aboard “Airotica,” Gideon’s ode to the “Mile-High Club.”
The studio goes dim, now lit only via a few flashlights, with the dancers peeling off their clothes (the “take off with us” double entendre now realized), and pairing up to perform a sensual, then overtly sexual, albeit artistic, number, much to the confusion and disappointment of the backers, the realization sinking in about the limited monetary and sponsorship potential that the addition of “Airotica” will bring. “There goes the family audience,” the head backer whispers to his colleague. At the end, Gideon asks what they think, only for the head backer to feign acceptance and approval with a nervous smile.
Ten years later, the dancer and choreographer, Paula Abdul used Fosse’s “Take Off With Us” as the basis for her “Cold Hearted” music video, directed by a then relatively unknown, David Fincher. The video starts out with a group of record-company executives arriving at a rehearsal space, seemingly uninterested in what they’re there to preview. One says it’s a “Bob Fosse kind of thing; it’s gonna be really, really hot,” to which another executive nervously replies, “Yeah, but tastefully, it’s tastefully hot.”
The first two verses and choruses find Abdul and her crew dancing much to the toe-tapping approval of the executives, but by the bridge, a couple of the dancers begin lowering the window shades, thus beginning Abdul’s (understandably much tamer) version of “Airotica.”
A couple of the executives are turned off, a couple of them turned on. Similar to Gideon asking his backers, Abdul asks her audience, “Well, what do you think?,” to which a conservative executive reluctantly replies, “It’s very nice.”
In January 2024, Grande released “yes, and?” as a self-empowerment reminder amid a social-media culture of click-and-critique. The video came at a time when Grande, once again, became the subject of chatter surrounding her personal life, specifically her short-lived marriage, and quick subsequent kindling of a new relationship with a co-star from the film adaptation of Wicked. For the Christian Breslauer-directed video for “yes, and?,” which starts similarly to Abdul’s, a group of jaded critics reluctantly arrive at an industrial space, yet ironically can’t seem to talk about anything but Grande and her signature ponytail, with some of the critics even rehashing, and reacting to, internet-sourced gossip.
As these critics enter the space, an elated group exits. The new batch take their seats in front of a series of stone statues, one of which is in the form of Grande with her hands covering her eyes in a see-no-evil posture. As the song’s beat drops in, the statues crumble into piles of rubble. Grande is released to tell her story, with the bridge reserved for commentary to those who deliver just that about her (“Don’t comment on my body/do not reply/your business is yours/and mine is mine”).
Through confident lyrics and cohesive choreography, Grande and her dancers persuade the critics to drop their metaphorical stone exteriors as well. Yet just as this is achieved, she and her dancers within a flash assume their statuesque personas once again, perhaps symbolic of the thick shell needed to navigate the current, all-too-easy, drop-a-comment culture. As the newly elated converts leave, yet another cluster of critics enter, they too soon to be shook.
In summary, the common threads between the three depictions are as follows:
The critics arrive.
Principal female character with a group of dancers.
Principal character dressed in black, and wearing a black hat with brim.
Stripped-down, industrial-looking rehearsal space featuring scaffolding structures.
Principal character on top of the scaffolding structure.
The controlled critics sitting on chairs as the audience, as opposed to the creative artists “in the arena.”
There’s always a moment when the critics are enjoying what is presented to them.
The rehearsal space goes from light to dark for a version of “Airotica.”
When it comes to Ariana Grande’s “yes, and?” video, there’s no place like homage.
Photos 1, 8, 9, 10: Ariana Grande in the music video for “yes, and?,” directed by Christian Breslauer; Photos 2, 3, 4: All That Jazz, directed by Bob Fosse, cinematography by Giuseppe Rotunno; Photos 5, 6, 7: Paula Abdul in the music video for “Cold Hearted,” directed by David Fincher.
The Pop Zeal Project (Track 83): Carole King: “I Feel The Earth Move”
A determined pounding of the piano keys starts Carole King’s “I Feel the Earth Move.” The singer-songwriter-musician had already co-written tracks made famous by The Shirelles (1960’s “Will You Love Me Tomorrow”) and Aretha Franklin (1967’s “[You Make Me Feel Like] A Natural Woman”), but with her second solo release, 1971’s Tapestry, King continued to make her voice—and her piano-playing—heard.
With the Women’s Liberation Movement already in full force in the early ‘70s, King’s material weaved its way into the hearts, minds and spirits of young women in particular, allowing Tapestry to stay on the charts for an astounding six-plus years. On “I Feel,” she freely described, through expert lyrical and musical constructions, the emotional and physical experiences of new love, from a female point of view. The most provocative lyric is toward the end when King describes the ecstatic fever that comes over her when she’s near the person who rocks her world, going vocally high at “I get a hot and cold” then quickly dropping to quietly repeat “all over” four times, like a vocal gyration, until the track ramps up to the chorus once again.
Whether it was The Shirelles’ song, conveying hesitancy—or Aretha’s, expressing certainty—in a relationship, or this smartly crafted track, best believe that when King felt something, you didn’t just hear it, it was damn near palpable.
Album photography: Jim McCrary
Coppola Mechanism: Francis and Sofia’s Different Portrayals of Loneliness
In between The Godfather and The Godfather Part II, Francis Ford Coppola directed another classic: 1974’s The Conversation. Gene Hackman plays Harry Caul, a San Francisco surveillance expert who delves relentlessly into other people’s lives. Yet after one assignment, which has him initially (just) eavesdropping on a wealthy man’s wife and her male companion, he eventually finds himself trying to save what’s left of his own life. The viewer, funnily enough in an inherently voyeuristic role, sees that it’s not much of a life to begin with (barren loft void of color or personality; awkward attempts at human relations, specifically ones with women). Yet Harry seemingly resounds himself to reclusiveness, a sort of Catholic-induced self-punishment for the guilt that goes along with doing what he knows is wrong.
Coppola’s still-relevant script touches upon themes of technological obsession, voyeurism and paranoia, and its last scene is solemn and unsettling. Slow-jazz saxophone plays over the scene, a disturbingly serene choice to show someone peacefully succumbing to the (literal) mess one has made of his life. While Harry keeps human interaction and emotional involvement at a literal faraway distance, there’s a character in another Coppola creation who wants to intentionally connect with others, but first, with herself.
Partly based on Sofia Coppola’s time in Tokyo during her early twenties, 2003’s Lost in Translation is one of the best at capturing loneliness. The scene when Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) calls a friend on the phone—a symbol of communication and connection—illustrates yet another way Charlotte feels dismissed and disconnected, not just a stranger in a new city, but worse, in her own life. As she sits alone in her hotel room, high atop and removed from the hustle and bustle of the city below, tearful gasps represent, in more ways than one, a longing to find home. The film’s soundtrack of dreamy, melancholic melodies and fuzzy feedback create a sense of… wander, and at times convey a hopeful reawakening for Charlotte, and actor in mid midlife crises, Bob (Bill Murray), both looking to feel refreshed after spending their lives in a (jet lag) haze.
Although both films are almost 30 years apart, Francis and Sofia show characters who are achingly lonely, yet the main difference is that one feels he deserves to be, the others are desperately trying not to be.
The Conversation: Paramount Pictures; Lost In Translation: Focus Features.
Plié Your Respects: Ann Reinking, Angels and All That Jazz
The dancer, actress and choreographer, Ann Reinking had a professional, and throughout most of the ’70s, a personal relationship with choreographer, Bob Fosse. In his semi-autobiographical film fantasy, All That Jazz, Reinking was perhaps at her most inspiring. As Kate Jagger (essentially playing herself), she delivered convincingly (perhaps pulling from an all-too-familiar reality) an exhausted, heartfelt plea to Roy Scheider’s philandering Joe (Bob Fosse) Gideon: “I don’t wanna go out with Michael Graham, I don’t wanna date, I have no more small talk left. I don’t wanna fool around, I don’t wanna play games, and I don’t wanna fight, I just… want… to love you.”
Although Joe is callous about casual sex, wound up about work and lousy at love, Kate remains ever-supportive, even continuing to serve as surrogate older sister/guardian (angel) to Joe’s daughter, Michelle (Erzsébet Földi, playing Nicole Fosse, daughter of Bob Fosse and fellow dance legend, Gwen Verdon). After Joe receives less-than-stellar early reviews on his new film, The Standup, Kate and Michelle as “those two dancing sensations, Jagger and Gideon” express through “an unrehearsed tribute” how much they love Joe, regardless of the “el stink-o, el flop-o” critiques.
It’s here where Kate is the angelic light, displaying exuberance and elegance, even providing nurturing notes to Michelle mid-routine. And as Peter Allen’s “Everything Old is New Again” comes to a close, a stressed-out Joe forgets his troubles, and gets happy, well, displays a rare smile. It’s a fleeting moment of joy for him—and the audience—as Fosse quickly cuts the scene and puts Joe back in his familiar morning-hangover routine of Visine and Dexedrine, starting another dark day that’s sure to be filled with issues of self-worth, the futile pursuit of perfection, and self-destruction.
Later however, in one of Joe’s “hospital hallucinations,” Kate is as an angel of death of sorts, but one bedazzled in a black sequined bowler hat, high-cut leotard and tights nonetheless (a seductive Odile [the black swan] to her previous innocent Odette [the white swan] in a razzle-dazzle rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake). In “There’ll Be Some Changes Made,” Kate warns Joe that the proverbial final curtain is about to come down if he keeps singing and dancing to the same ol’ tune. The light, in more ways than one, is about to go out.
As only Fosse (and Gideon) could do—as a director controlling how things should appear and move about—Joe imagines his death as one sparkly, soulful, acid-rock finale to life; in the audience are people from his past, including Kate, sitting next to who we can assume is Michael Graham, the dancer she references earlier in the film. Fosse respected Reinking and her talent so much that she is also cast here as one of the “anatomy angels” who dances alongside Joe and “death emcee,” O’Connor Flood (Ben Vereen). Joe takes his final bow, and in a dolly shot floats toward another light throughout the movie, Angelique, the film’s true angel of death (played by Jessica Lange, Fosse’s romantic interest at the time); leave it to Fosse to fantasize that death is a flirty female.
After the end credits, it wasn’t the end for Reinking, who appeared in the film version of the Broadway musical, Annie, and as Micki in the comedy, Micki & Maude. In the late ‘90s, she starred in and choreographed the revival of Chicago on Broadway, which earned her a Tony Award for Best Choreography, and later co-created, -directed and -choreographed the musical retrospective, Fosse. With Gwen Verdon’s passing in 2000, Reinking became one of the major torchbearers of Fosse’s artistic legacy, until December 12, 2020 when she passed away in her sleep, a graceful exit to join the angels.
All That Jazz cinematographer: Guiseppe Rotunno.