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Maurice Hines Jr., who went from tap-dancing brother act to Broadway trailblazer, dies at 80

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Maurice Hines Jr., who went from tap-dancing brother act to Broadway trailblazer, dies at 80

The scene from the movie “Cotton Club” was fictional but encapsulated much in the relationship between Maurice and Gregory Hines. In the film, the estranged brothers, once a top-billed dance duo, come face to face in a nightclub, their wounds and vanities visible; then they reunite in a seamless virtuoso dance, followed by an embrace.

Maurice Hines Jr., the older and longer-lived brother of a famous tandem act that evolved to separate solo stardom for each man, died Friday in Englewood, N.J., said his cousin Richard Nurse, who maintains the Maurice Hines website.

Hines forged a trailblazing 70-year career creating, choreographing, directing and starring in Broadway shows — and also performing all over the world — all the while overcoming prejudice against Black entertainers in leadership roles, and also prejudice against out gay men and out gay Black men.

Centrally, he could flat-out dance, with tap dancing as his trademark form but not his only one.

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That movie scene and another from the film exhibit those skills as well as the troubled relationship with brother Gregory Hines, who achieved surpassing fame in Hollywood. Director Francis Ford Coppola allowed the brothers to improvise their filmed interactions.

“Francis picked up on the tension and brought that into the story,” said John Carluccio, who directed and produced the 2019 documentary “Maurice Hines: Bring Them Back.” “They played it very well because clearly that was going on.”

Soon after the film came out, there began a 10-year period where the brothers did not speak. They put aside their differences to be with their dying mother in the latter 1990s. This reconciliation lasted until 2003, when Gregory died of cancer at 57.

Those “Cotton Club” scenes were the last they danced together.

Maurice and Gregory Hines achieved early fame as perhaps the last of the great tap-dancing duos to emerge from the classic age of tap. They dazzled audiences in the early 1950s, first appearing on Broadway when they were 9 and 7 in the 1954 show “The Girl in Pink Tights.” They also sang and, in the early 1960s, joined forces with their father, Maurice Hines Sr., who played drums as part of Hines, Hines and Dad.

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Tap had fallen out of vogue, but the brothers worked steadily, appearing more than two dozen times on “The Tonight Show” alone. Gregory, however, tired of being the impish, irresistible younger sibling and decamped alone for Southern California in 1972.

Living on opposite coasts, Maurice was faring better. He was hand-picked to star in the Broadway musical revue “Eubie!” and urged producers to give his brother an audition, while also haranguing his brother to get to New York. Gregory did not impress — his failed audition was later captured in spirit by a scene in the 1999 movie “Tap,” which starred Gregory Hines. In real life, Maurice insisted he would bow out of “Eubie!” unless Gregory was given a chance.

The 1979 show was a smash — as was their duet — but critics in particular fell in love with Gregory, and thus was launched his Tony-winning Broadway career.

Maurice would later replace Gregory — at the latter’s recommendation — as the lead in the stage hits “Sophisticated Ladies” and “Jelly’s Last Jam,” each making the role his own.

Gregory returned to Hollywood to pursue a notable film career. Maurice focused almost entirely on live theater.

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“They both found their own lane,” documentarian Carluccio said.

Maurice’s energy, creativity, forcefulness and forthrightness helped him break ground creating, directing, choreographing and starring in two Broadway shows: “Uptown … It’s Hot!” in 1986 and “Hot Feet” in 2006. The latter retold Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Red Shoes” through the music of Earth Wind & Fire.

“His choreography was some of the best I’ve ever seen, breathtaking,” said veteran actor-director-producer Mel Johnson Jr., who worked with Maurice Hines on several shows. “The performers were exhausted but they loved it, because they didn’t get the chance to do that kind of dancing on Broadway.”

Despite appreciation for the dancing, neither show proved a commercial or critical success — and Maurice Hines was forced to do much of his best work off Broadway and on tour.

His body of theater work included tributes to other artists such as Ella Fitzgerald, the fusion of hip-hop with traditional theater, a dance company that melded tap and ballet and, late in his career, the biographical, well-received “Tappin’ Thru Life,” which featured an all-female orchestra. He also recorded albums and headlined an acclaimed, long-running nightclub act.

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Maurice Robert Hines Jr. was born in Harlem in New York City on Dec. 13, 1943. Gregory was born Feb. 14, 1946. Their mother, Alma Lola Lawless Hines, became a canny manager of the family act. Maurice Sr. was both jack-of-all-trades and working-class Renaissance man, for a time alternating roles as nightclub bouncer and drum-playing orchestra leader, Nurse said. After serving as a mariner in World War II with the Merchant Marine, he sold soda. Late in life he became a chef.

Maurice started dance lessons at 5 after fledgling dance studio owner Henry LeTang went door-to-door recruiting for students, Nurse said. Maurice would immediately teach what he learned to 3-year-old Gregory. LeTang, who later became a force on Broadway, spotted the boys’ talent and drive — and soon began private lessons.

The boys began performing, including at Harlem’s legendary Apollo Theater, where bad acts were not tolerated.

And they watched, performed with or learned directly from such talents as the acrobatic Nicholas Brothers, jazz singer Ella Fitzgerald and entertainer Sammy Davis Jr. — incorporating elements of those performers’ artistry into their own work.

“We wanted us to see all the great tap dancers,” Hines told documentarians. “We saw Coles and Atkins and we saw Bunny Briggs and Teddy Hale, Baby Lawrence. We were learning from these guys and we wanted to be up close so we could see their feet. … The quality that they all had, that I wanted so badly — and I do have it but I learned from them — was … appealing to the audience, be one with the audience, being honest and real with them.”

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They boys quickly became popular across the country, opening for entertainers such as Lionel Hampton and Gypsy Rose Lee. They started off as the Hines Kids, became the Hines Brothers and finally Hines, Hines and Dad — until Gregory broke up the act.

Although the split hurt Maurice emotionally, each brother grew artistically. Maurice studied ballet, African and Dunham Technique as well as studying with modern maestro Alvin Ailey and jazz dance innovator Frank Hatchett. His body became limber and stronger, his turns sharp and fast.

He had to “redesign my body,” as he put it. “It was hard.”

Gregory, in turn, developed an earthy, explosive, emotive improvisational style that built on Black rhythmic traditions and influenced an entire generation that followed, including current star Savion Glover, whom Gregory mentored.

Both brothers were key figures in the revival of tap dancing through their teaching, performing and personal connection to greats of the past.

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“My brother and I tap completely differently although we were both taught by Henry LeTang,” Maurice Hines told The Times in 1994. “We have very different stances. My style tries to be exactly like Fayard Nicholas, a full body style. [Gregory] dances from the waist down.”

It was ultimately Gregory Hines who became the defining tapper of his generation, although both brothers were undisputed masters of the craft.

Maurice Hines headlined shows into his early 70s, finally slowing down as health problems and accelerating memory issues took their toll, family and friends said.

Hines is survived by an adopted daughter, Cheryl Davis, whom he raised with former longtime companion Silas Davis. Funeral plans are pending.

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‘Song Sung Blue’ movie review: Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson sing their hearts out in a lovely musical biopic

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‘Song Sung Blue’ movie review: Hugh Jackman and Kate Hudson sing their hearts out in a lovely musical biopic

A still from ‘Song Sung Blue’.
| Photo Credit: Focus Features/YouTube

There is something unputdownable about Mike Sardina (Hugh Jackman) from the first moment one sees him at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting celebrating his 20th sober birthday. He encourages the group to sing the famous Neil Diamond number, ‘Song Sung Blue,’ with him, and we are carried along on a wave of his enthusiasm.

Song Sung Blue (English)

Director: Craig Brewer

Cast: Hugh Jackman, Kate Hudson, Michael Imperioli, Ella Anderson, Mustafa Shakir, Fisher Stevens, Jim Belushi

Runtime: 132 minutes

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Storyline: Mike and Claire find and rescue each other from the slings and arrows of mediocrity when they form a Neil Diamond tribute band

We learn that Mike is a music impersonator who refuses to come on stage as anyone but himself, Lightning, at the Wisconsin State Fair. At the fair, he meets Claire (Kate Hudson), who is performing as Patsy Cline. Sparks fly between the two, and Claire suggests Mike perform a Neil Diamond tribute.

Claire and Mike start a relationship and a Neil Diamond tribute band, called Lightning and Thunder. They marry and after some initial hesitation, Claire’s children from her first marriage, Rachel (Ella Anderson) and Dayna (Hudson Hensley), and Mike’s daughter from an earlier marriage, Angelina (King Princess), become friends. 

Members from Mike’s old band join the group, including Mark Shurilla (Michael Imperioli), a Buddy Holly impersonator and Sex Machine (Mustafa Shakir), who sings as James Brown. His dentist/manager, Dave Watson (Fisher Stevens), believes in him, even fixing his tooth with a little lightning bolt!

The tribute band meets with success, including opening for Pearl Jam, with the front man for the grunge band, Eddie Vedder (John Beckwith), joining Lightning and Thunder for a rendition of ‘Forever in Blue Jeans’ at the 1995 Pearl Jam concert in Milwaukee.

There is heartbreak, anger, addiction, and the rise again before the final tragedy. Song Sung Blue, based on Greg Kohs’ eponymous documentary, is a gentle look into a musician’s life. When Mike says, “I’m not a songwriter. I’m not a sex symbol. But I am an entertainer,” he shows that dreams do not have to die. Mike and Claire reveal that even if you do not conquer the world like a rock god, you can achieve success doing what makes you happy.

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ALSO READ: ‘Run Away’ series review: Perfect pulp to kick off the New Year

Song Sung Blue is a validation for all the regular folk with modest dreams, but dreams nevertheless. As the poet said, “there’s no success like failure, and failure’s no success at all.” Hudson and Jackman power through the songs and tears like champs, leaving us laughing, tapping our feet, and wiping away the errant tears all at once.

The period detail is spot on (never mind the distracting wigs). The chance to hear a generous catalogue of Diamond’s music in arena-quality sound is not to be missed, in a movie that offers a satisfying catharsis. Music is most definitely the food of love, so may we all please have a second and third helping?

Song Sung Blue is currently running in theatres 

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Stephen A. Smith doubles down on calling ICE shooting in Minneapolis ‘completely justified’

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Stephen A. Smith doubles down on calling ICE shooting in Minneapolis ‘completely justified’

Stephen A. Smith is arguably the most-well known sports commentator in the country. But the outspoken ESPN commentator’s perspective outside the sports arena has landed him in a firestorm.

The furor is due to his pointed comments defending an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent who fatally shot a Minneapolis woman driving away from him.

Just hours after the shooting on Wednesday, Smith said on his SiriusXM “Straight Shooter” talk show that although the killing of Renee Nicole Good was “completely unnecessary,” he added that the agent “from a lawful perspective” was “completely justified” in firing his gun at her.

He also noted, “From a humanitarian perspective, however, why did he have to do that?”

Smith’s comments about the agent being in harm’s way echoed the views of Deputy of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem, who said Good engaged in an “act of domestic terrorism” by attacking officers and attempting to run them over with her vehicle.

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However, videos showing the incident from different angles indicate that the agent was not standing directly in front of Good’s vehicle when he opened fire on her. Local officials contend that Good posed no danger to ICE officers. A video posted by partisan media outlet Alpha News showed Good talking to agents before the shooting, saying, “I’m not mad at you.”

The shooting has sparked major protests and accusations from local officials that the presence of ICE has been disruptive and escalated violence. Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frye condemned ICE, telling agents to “get the f— out of our city.”

The incident, in turn, has put a harsher spotlight on Smith, raising questions on whether he was reckless or irresponsible in offering his views on Good’s shooting when he had no direct knowledge of what had transpired.

An angered Smith appeared on his “Straight Shooter” show on YouTube on Friday, saying the full context of his comments had not been conveyed in media reports, specifically calling out the New York Post and media personality Keith Olbermann, while saying that people were trying to get him fired.

He also doubled down on his contention that Good provoked the situation that led to her death, saying the ICE agent was in front of Good’s car and would have been run over had he not stepped out of the way.

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“In the moment when you are dealing with law enforcement officials, you obey their orders so you can get home safely,” he said. “Renee Good did not do that.”

When reached for comment about his statements, a representative for Smith said his response was in Friday’s show.

It’s not the first time Smith, who has suggested he’s interesting in going into politics, has sparked outside the sports universe. He and journalist Joy Reid publicly quarreled following her exit last year from MSNBC.

He also faced backlash from Black media personalities and others when he accused Democratic Rep. Jasmine Crockett of Texas of using “street verbiage” in her frequent criticisms of President Trump.

“The way that Jasmine Crockett chooses to express herself … Aren’t you there to try and get stuff done instead of just being an impediment? ‘I’m just going to go off about Trump, cuss him out every chance I get, say the most derogatory things imaginable, and that’s my day’s work?’ That ain’t work! Work is, this is the man in power. I know what his agenda is. Maybe I try to work with this man. I might get something out of it for my constituents.’ ”

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Dead Man’s Wire review: Gus Van Sant tackles true-crime intrigue

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Dead Man’s Wire review: Gus Van Sant tackles true-crime intrigue

In 1977, a man named Tony Kiritsis fell behind on mortgage payments for an Indianapolis, Indiana, property that he hoped to develop into an affordable shopping center for independent merchants. He asked his mortgage broker for more time, but was denied. This enraged him because he suspected that the broker and his father, who owned the company, were conspiring to defraud him by letting the property go into foreclosure and acquire it for much less than market value. He showed up at the offices of the mortgage company, Meridian, for a scheduled appointment regarding the debt in the broker’s office, where he took the broker, Richard O. Hall, hostage, and demanded $130,000 to settle the debt, plus a public apology from the company. He carried a long cardboard box containing a shotgun with a so-called dead man’s wire, which he affixed to Hall as a precaution against police interference: if either of them were shot, tackled, or even caused to stumble, the wire would pull the trigger, blowing Hall’s head off.

That’s only the beginning of an astonishing story that has inspired many retellings, including a memoir by Hall, a 2018 documentary (whose producers were consultants on this movie) and a podcast drama starring Jon Hamm as Tony Kiritsis. And now it’s the best current movie you likely haven’t heard about—a drama from director Gus Van Sant (“Good Will Hunting”), starring Bill Skarsgård as Tony Kiritsis and Dacre Montgomery as Richard Hall. It’s unabashedly inspired by the best crime dramas from the 1970s, including “Dog Day Afternoon,” “The Sugarland Express,” “Network,” and “Badlands,” and can stand proudly alongside them.

From the opening sequence, which scores the high-strung Tony’s pre-crime prep with Deodato’s immortally groovy disco version of “Thus Spake Zarathustra” played on the radio by one of Tony’s local heroes, the philosophical DJ Fred Temple (Colman Domingo); through the expansive middle section, which establishes Tony as part of a thriving community that will see him as their representative in the one-sided struggle between labor and capital; through the ending and postscript, which leave you unsure how to feel about what you’ve seen but eager to discuss it with others, “Dead Man’s Wire” is a nostalgia trip of the best kind. Rather than superficially imitate the style of a specific type of ’70s drama, Van Sant and his collaborators connect with the essence of what made them powerful and memorable: their connection to issues that weighed on viewers’ minds fifty years ago and that have grown heavier since.

Tony is far from a criminal genius or a potential folk hero, but thinks he’s both. The shotgun box with a weird bulge, barely held together with packing tape, is a correlative of the mentality of the man who carries it. His home is filled with counterculture-adjacent books, but he’s a slob who loudly gripes during a brief car ride that his “shorts have been ridin’ up since Market Street,” and has a vanity license plate that reads “TOPLESS.” His eloquence runs the gamut from Everyman acuity to self-canceling nonsense slathered in profanity . He accurately sums up the mortgage company’s practices as “a private equity trap” (a phrase that looks ahead to the 2008 financial collapse, which was sparked by predatory lending on subprime mortgages) and hopes that his extreme actions will generate some “some goddamn catharsis” for himself and his fellow citizens, and “some genuine guilt” among Indianapolis’ lending class.

He’s also intoxicated by his sudden local fame. The hostage situation migrates from the mortgage company to Tony’s shabby apartment complex, which is quickly surrounded by beat cops, tactical officers, and reporters (including Myha’La as Linda Page, a twenty-something, Black local TV correspondent looking to move up. Tony also forces his way into the life of his idol Temple, who tapes a phone conversation with him, previews it for police, and grudgingly accepts their or-else request to continue the dialog and plays their regular talks on his morning show.

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Despite these inroads, Tony is unable to prevent his inner petty schmuck from emerging and undermining his message, such as it is. He vacillates between treating Hall as a useless representative of the financial elite (when the elder Hall finally agrees to speak with Tony via phone from a tropical vacation, Tony sneers to Hall the younger, “Your daddy’s on the line—he wants to know when you’ll be home for supper!”) and connecting with him on a human level. When he’s not bombastic, he’s needy and fawning. “I like you!” he keeps telling people he just met, but Fred most of all—as if a Black man who’d built a comfortable life for himself and his wife in 1977 Indiana could say no when an overwhelmingly white police force asked him to become Tony’s fake-confidant; and as if it matters whether a hostage-taking gunman feels warmly towards him.

Ultimately, though, making perfect sense and effecting lasting change are no higher on Tony’s agenda than they were for the protagonists of “Dog Day Afternoon” and “Network.” Like them, these are unhinged audience surrogates whose media stardom turned them into human megaphones for anger at the miserable state of things, and the indifference of institutions that caused or worsened it. These include local law enforcement, which—to paraphrase hapless bank robber Sonny Wirtzik taunting cops in “Dog Day Afternoon”—wanna kill Tony so bad that they can taste it. The discussions between Indianapolis police and the FBI (represented by Neil Mulac’s Agent Patrick Mullaney, a straight-outta-Quantico robot) are all about how to set up and take the kill shot.

The aforementioned phone call leads to a gut-wrenching moment that echoes the then-recent kidnapping of John Paul Getty III, when hostage-takers called their victim’s wealthy grandfather to arrange ransom payment, and got nickel-and-dimed as if they were trying to sell him a used car. The elder Hall is played by “Dog Day Afternoon” star Al Pacino, inspired casting that not only officially connects Tony with Wirtzik but proves that, at 85, Pacino can still bring the heat. The character’s presence creeps into the rest of the story like a toxic fog, even when he’s not the subject of conversation.

With his frizzy grey toupee, self-satisfied Midwest twang, and punchable smirk, Pacino is skin-crawlingly perfect as an old man who built a fortune on being good at one thing, but thinks that makes him a fountain of wisdom on all things, including the conduct of Real Men in a land of women and sissies. After watching TV coverage of Tony getting emotional while keeping his shotgun on Richard, Jr., he beams with pride that Tony shed tears but his own son didn’t. (Kelly Lynch, who costarred in another classic Van Sant film about American losers, “Drugstore Cowboy,” plays Richard, Sr.’s trophy wife, who is appalled at being confronted with irrefutable evidence of her husband’s monstrousness, but still won’t say a word against him.)

Van Sant was 25 during the real-life incidents that inspired this movie. That may partly account for the physical realism of the production, which doesn’t feel created but merely observed, in the manner of ’70s movies whose authenticity was strengthened by letting the main characters’ dialogue overlap and compete with ambient sounds; shooting in existing locations when possible, and dressing the actors in clothes that looked as if they’d been hanging in regular folks’ closets for years. Peggy Schnitzer did the costumes, Stefan Dechant the production design, and Arnaud Poiter the cinematography, all of which figuratively wear bell-bottom pants and platform shoes; the soundscape was overseen by Leslie Schatz, who keeps the environments believably dense and filled with incidental sounds while making sure the important stuff can be understood. It should also be mentioned that the film’s blueprint is an original script by a first-timer, Adam Kolodny, with a bona-fide working class worldview; he wrote it while working as a custodian at the Los Angeles Zoo.

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More impressive than the film’s behind-the-scenes pedigree is its vision of another time that unexpectedly comes to seem not too different from this one. It is both a lovingly constructed time machine highlighting details that now seem as antiquated as lithography and buckboard wagons (the film deserves a special Oscar just for its phones) and a wide-ranging consideration of indestructible realities of life in the United States, which are highlighted in such a way that you notice them without feeling as if the movie pointed at them.

For instance, consider Tony’s infatuation with Fred Temple, which peaks when Tony honors his hero by demonstrating his “soul dancing” for his hostage, is a pre-Internet version of what we would now call a “parasocial relationship.” An awareness of racial dynamics is baked into this, and into the film as a whole. Domingo’s performance as Temple captures the tightrope walk that Black celebrities have to pull off, reassuring their most excitable white fans that they understand and care about them without cosigning condescension or behavior that could escalate into harassment. Consider, too, the matter-of-fact presentation of how easy it is for violence-prone people to buddy up to law enforcement officers, especially when they inhabit the same spaces. When Indianapolis police detective Will Grable (Cary Elwes) approaches Tony on a public street soon after the kidnapping, Tony’s face brightens as he exclaims, “Hi Mike! Nice to see you!”

And then, of course, there’s the economic and political framework, which is built with a firm yet delicate hand, and compassion for the vibrant messiness of life. “Dead Man’s Wire” depicts an analog era in which crises like this one were treated as important local matters that involved local people, businesses, and government agents, rather than fuel for a global agitprop industry posing as a news media, and a parasitic army of self-proclaimed influencers reycling the work of other influencers for clout. Van Sant’s movie continually insists on the uniqueness and value of every life shown onscreen, however briefly glimpsed, from the many unnamed citizens who are shown silently watching news coverage of the crisis while working their day jobs, to Fred’s right hand at the radio station, an Asian-American stoner dude (Vinh Nguyen) with a closet-sized office who talent-scouts unknown bands while exhaling cumulus clouds of pot smoke.

All this is drawn together by Van Sant and editor Saar Klein in pop music-driven montages that show how every member of the community depicted in this story is connected, even if they don’t know it or refuse to admit it. As John Donne put it, “No man is an island/Entire of itself/Each is a piece of the continent/A part of the main.” The struggle of the individual is summed up in one of Fred’s hypnotic radio monologues: “Let’s remember to become the ocean, not disappear into it.”

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