While Nichols directed two Broadway musicals \u2013 The Apple Tree<\/em> (1966) and Monty Python\u2019s Spamalot <\/em>(2005) \u2013 Nichols never took up the genre in film. Postcards from the Edge<\/em> is no exception: while it features songs performed by its stars, it is not, by definition, a musical. In her 2019 book The Movie Musical!<\/em>, Jeanine Basinger marks a distinction between films that feature music and films that actually belong to the musical genre, defining the musical as \u201ca stylized presentation of life, where \u2018reality\u2019 is presented not through the actions normally associated with everyday life, but through musical performance.\u201d Basinger\u2019s definition of a musical does not describe the essentially realistic Postcards<\/em>, in which the narrative unfurls through behavior, conversations, and everyday actions; no torch song or dream ballet transcends the reality of the circumstances.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Postcards<\/em> demands the performance of a song, it is because musical performance is an ingrained part of its characters\u2019 identities. Doris is a former star of MGM musicals, and Suzanne, immersed in her mother\u2019s world of constant showmanship since childhood, has followed in her footsteps as an actress and occasional singer (Fisher based the characters on her mother Debbie Reynolds and herself). Both women understand their lives through the lens of performance, and their (firmly diegetic) musical numbers bear this out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Early in the film, Doris throws a party for Suzanne, who struggles with addiction, and has completed a rehab stay with a film offer waiting for her \u2013 with the odd requirement that she live with her mother for the duration of production. At the party, an enthusiastic guest makes a demand: \u201cSing something, Suzanne!\u201d She tries to wheedle her way out of it, while Doris latches on to the idea: clutching her arms and intently holding her gaze, she tells her to \u201csing one of your old numbers from my act!…something for your old mother.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suzanne relents and makes her way to a room seemingly designated for impromptu party performances, with a piano facing an expansive audience space. Streep commiserates with the pianist with her back turned toward the camera, and on the wall behind her, a small painted portrait hangs: MacLaine as Doris staring down the viewer, with white gloves lightly fingering the brim of a bowler hat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suzanne begins her song, Ray Charles\u2019s bluesy ballad \u201cYou Don\u2019t Know Me,\u201d softly and still turned toward the pianist:<\/p>\n\n\n\n Anyone can tell<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n You think you know me well<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n But you don\u2019t know me, no<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n When she turns forward, we see the portrait of Doris literally watching over her shoulder. As Suzanne builds in confidence, Doris catches her eye from the audience and mouths \u201ctake off your jacket,\u201d a moment of stage management which Suzanne abides. For the rest of the performance, Nichols keeps the portrait in the shot lingering above Suzanne, and as she swells with emotion and vocal power, she occasionally sways with the music and blocks the portrait from the viewer\u2019s sight. By the time she ends the song with an apologetic little tag, though, the portrait is back in full view.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Immediately following Suzanne\u2019s song, Doris embraces her, and the same party guest implores that Doris sings. She doesn\u2019t need convincing: she halfheartedly says that it\u2019s Suzanne\u2019s night, then perfunctorily asks her permission (granted), telling Suzanne that \u201cyou sang for me, I\u2019ll sing for you.\u201d A beat, then to the pianist, \u201c\u2018I\u2019m Still Here\u2019 <\/em>in D flat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Stephen Sondheim, at Nichols\u2019s request, rewrote the lyrics of \u201cI\u2019m Still Here\u201d for the film. Originally a showstopper for a minor character in his musical Follies<\/em>, with lyrics loosely based on the life of Joan Crawford, Sondheim wrote in his lyric collection Finishing the Hat <\/em>that he retooled the song to reflect the lives of both MacLaine and Debbie Reynolds. The song is structured as a litany of events the singer has endured (Ten years of braces, \/ voice and tap, \/ touring in places \/ off the map)<\/em>, and eventually becomes a statement of triumphant resilience. The rewritten lyrics, in the context of the film, suggest that Doris revised them herself — for her aforementioned \u201cact\u201d, perhaps. Contrasting Streep\u2019s emotive, wavering performance, MacLaine performs with gusto and clearly rehearsed choreography, giving the impression that Doris can pull this number out at any given moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In a sparkling red gown, MacLaine shows off her legs, bangs on the piano and shouts (\u201cI. Am. Still. Here!<\/em>\u201d), poses with a full-length portrait of herself, and on the lyric \u201cI got through all of last year,<\/em>\u201d holds Suzanne\u2019s head in her hands, implicitly acknowledging Suzanne\u2019s struggles with addiction \u2013 in closeup, Streep\u2019s face falls following this public performance of what should be a private moment. Doris\u2019s number is received rapturously, with a shot in the middle of the song showing the entire party gazing on in admiration, and cheers from all at its close.<\/p>\n\n\n\n While we have already been introduced to Suzanne and Doris\u2019s wobbly relationship at this point in the film, their performances deepen what we know about them. Suzanne sings meekly at times, and passionately at others, about being misunderstood, with her mother both symbolically and literally monitoring her the entire time. Doris\u2019s performance, on the other hand, exemplifies her white-knuckled commitment to maintaining her showbiz persona, all the while walking a thin line between committed self-reliance and careless egotism.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Above all, it shows the viewer that Doris, immersed in musical performance and stardom since adolescence, sees her life as a musical: her studied, \u201cspontaneous\u201d performance and her narrativization of her own life through song tells us as much. Suzanne\u2019s performance, then, indicates the extent to which she has walked in Doris\u2019s shadow, wanting to stake a claim on her own life but unable to separate herself from her mother\u2019s influence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the film\u2019s final scene, Suzanne finally does stake her claim. Over the course of the film, Suzanne comes to terms with her own struggles and her relationship with her mother \u2013 and the climactic turning point in her growth is a musical performance. Working with a director who has become a confidante, Suzanne films a performance of the defiant country song \u201cI\u2019m Checkin\u2019 Out,\u201d written by Shel Silverstein. Nichols forefronts the production of this film: on a soundstage, we see a makeup artist touch up Suzanne, the crew prepare to shoot, and finally, the clapperboard click in front of Suzanne\u2019s face. Her face dimly lit, she softly begins: \u201cPull back them dark and dusty drapes \/ And let in some light.<\/em>\u201d As she sings the first verse, her spotlight steadily brightens and the tempo accelerates, until her face is fully illuminated at the chorus: \u201cJust tell \u2018em \/ I\u2019m checkin\u2019 out \/ of this heartbreak hotel.<\/em>\u201d As the song continues to pick up in tempo and volume, Streep\u2019s voice grows and she physically lets loose, giving the impression that Suzanne is finally confident and in control.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Halfway through the song, the camera pans across the soundstage, taking in each extra and crew member, all enrapt, and eventually reaching Doris, who watches with a broad smile from the rafters. We see the full audience response at the song\u2019s close, too \u2013 after Suzanne\u2019s vocally virtuosic finish, the camera cuts to a wide shot of the soundstage, showing everyone on set jumping out of their seats with applause and cheers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Both of these shots echo the views of an adoring audience in Doris\u2019s performance of \u201cI\u2019m Still Here\u201d: by foregrounding an engaged audience and eruptions of applause in both performances, Nichols draws a direct line from Doris\u2019s command as a performer to Suzanne\u2019s. And just as Doris narrativized and performed her life in \u201cI\u2019m Still Here,\u201d Suzanne does the same in \u201cI\u2019m Checkin\u2019 Out,\u201d a song about emerging triumphant from heartbreak. By asserting herself as an individual through a confident musical performance, Suzanne both escapes from Doris\u2019s shadow and reveals all that they still have in common.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mike Nichols did not direct a musical with Postcards from the Edge <\/em>(nor did Carrie Fisher write one), but instead showed characters who use music to process their own lives. Doris\u2019s MGM-musical panache dictates her self-image, and while Suzanne sets out on an individual path, she inherits Doris\u2019s commitment to a showstopping number. Their songs <\/em>allow the viewer to see these aspects of Doris and Suzanne on full display — without them, we\u2019re only getting part of the picture. The deft inclusion of songs in Postcards <\/em>ultimately mark it as a sterling example of music as a formal technique: regardless of whether or not a film is a musical <\/em>as a genre, musical performance in the right film can not only be enlightening, but essential. ![\"\"](\"https:\/\/crookedmarquee.com\/stage8\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/postcards2-1024x683.jpg\")
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