I’m a country boy who was away for twenty-odd years, one who never watches television and hardly reads the redundancy of newspapers or celebrity publications. I knew nothing of the three decades of permutations of Chicago: The Musical nor had seen more than the marquee of its current incarnation. (Overpriced Broadway survives on tourists and the well-heeled but not us normal City dwellers, who lack the time and money.) Older now, anyway, I don’t find present show tunes anywhere close to those of years ago. Despite reviews – often suspiciously undated – star-studded revivals fail to recapture that old-time feeling, and film rarely bottles the full stage lightning of live performance.

Like "Broadway Joe" Namath’s seeing West Side Story and, wonderfully, not knowing how it would turn out, I went innocently to Chicago (2002), as much expecting Scarface and Bugs to do a St. Valentine’s Day Fred-and-Ginger as maybe a singing, swinging Sammy Sosa.

From minute one, however, things were larger than life and more than screen-deep. At that pre-release showing for an unthinkable 1,440 sardines, there was electricity in the air, the sort of oomph that drives some sporting events, elevates athletes, and becomes itself an integral part of the happening. No matter that many in attendance were Miramax or otherwise connected people, or that the barrage of manipulative tricks never let up. Glittery and eye-winking, yes; insistent and loud, of course (lower Dolby volume would have helped) -- but all in all this is as close a merge as you’re likely to see of the force of living musical with the unique possibility of celluloid, between the separate imaginations of proscenium and camera.

Since there were no opening credits, it was disconcerting at first to figure the audience’s wild enthusiasm at every note and step as Velma’s (Catherine Zeta-Jones) insistent stage "And All That Jazz" alternates against Roxie Hart’s (Renee Zellweger) gaping adoration and subsequent tryst. It starts with a bang – no, not that kind, although that comes next, climaxing in Bang, Bang, You’re Dead! – and builds from there: murder and more, a women’s jail, a shameless, cynical celebrity lawyer and a three-ring trial.

Using back lighting to the full and eclectic sets suggesting Jailhouse Rock, Batman, Cabaret (of course), a color-subdued Dick Tracy, even a bit of Ragtime, Chicago hints at a moral: the allure and evanescence of celebrity, the power of money and brash razzle-dazzle, the venality of both legal system and media. But the purpose is to entertain, and that it does, despite a lessening of energy during the last half-hour.

Looked at in daylight, the music is unmemorable and will not join the store of classics that have originated on Broadway. Some numbers from the original stage version (playing, by the way, right next door at the Shubert) have been omitted – and it is telling that of those that remain, only two are of true deep note, those farthest from the (Chicago-born) Fosse jazziness. Queen Latifah slinks a wiggly, bluesy "When You’re Good to Mama," and as Roxie’s sad husband Amos, John C. Reilly clowns a quietly effective "Nowhere Man"-ish "Mister Cellophane."

Waifishly thin Renee Zellweger tries too hard at a wimpy but conniving Marilyn clone. Hardly anyone realizes that, before her U.S. metamorphosis into femme fatale, tap-dance trained Catherine Zeta-Jones was shining on the West End; she is impressive here, although it would be hard to maintain that peak of her crowd-pleasing curtain-raiser.

Few remember, either, that young Richard Gere was a country-bluegrass-rock musician and later onstage in the New York and London productions of Grease. His voice is not his fortune, although he is game and shows best in numbers geared to wit and gesture rather than musical talent. As a hoofer, he is unexceptional, and enhancement and unwise inserts merely emphasize the point. Were this world true and perhaps color-blind, the part might have gone to someone like Gregory Hines or Taye Diggs, the latter "The Band Leader" in this film but only recently lawyer Billy Flynn himself on Broadway. In his non-celebrity choices, director Rob Marshall is generally fortunate and makes excellent use of Broadway’s and Hollywood’s talented, usually nameless chorus dancers.

Post-screening, knowledgeable opinions ranged from "too glitzy" to "second-best musical [film] I’ve ever seen" (the speaker did not identify his gold-medalist). Chicago (2002) actually fits in somewhere near both extremes. It is glitzy, awfully so – it even rains glitter in two separate numbers – but it’s meant to be. Subtlety is decidedly not its strong point. Sit back, and enjoy. Don’t even try to hum along.

(Released by Miramax ; not rated by MPAA.)