CITY DREAMS, CITY SCHEMES
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And yet, directed with deadpan earnestness and plodding inevitability by Harry Silverstein, City Dreams, City Schemes is refreshingly outspoken about its lack of something to say; tenderly and truthfully, it really means every cliche. Returning to a simpler (i.e., cornier) era, it tells the predictable tale of five plucky New York musicians in 1948 who just want to hang out on street corners and play derivative jazz till they’re famous.
Of course that’s too easy, so writer and lyricist Hyman Mann throws in a bogus conflict involving Mike, a rotten, snarling cop who secretly craves Dawn, the spunky girlfriend of bandleader Johnny. Mike tries to frame the kids with an inept and contrived scheme, but in a drawn-out trial scene the kids turn the tables. Jazz triumphs over constabulary nastiness; even Johnny’s nagging Jewish mother is temporarily impressed. Of course the forced happy ending conveniently overlooks the fact that the boys are still just as badly off as before, with no money for the instruments they need to play the big gig they hope will shoot them to the top.
