The best marching band movie is The Music Man. It's also the only marching band movie.

        You could fill a stadium with football movies, but there's only one about a band. Take it from a former 77th trombone: Some things never change.

        But here's a surprise. The Music Man, from 1962, a play that's as common in high school auditoriums as chewing gum under the seats, is really about Bill Clinton.

        It's not original with me. Newsweek's Jan. 22 story, “So long, Music Man,” said Bill Clinton “found the key to our deeper selves.”
I'd the president played Newsweek liberals like a flea market banjo.

        But there's no denying Music Man is a Technicolor Nostradamus that foretells the Clinton era.

        In a way, it figures. Everything is about Bill Clinton. Just ask him. And if you don't believe him (who does?), just turn on a TV, open a magazine or flip on the radio. The Clinton Show is harder to miss than an eight-year toothache.

        But back to our movie. The Music Man is one of those hokey musicals people laugh at today. The kind in which actors are chatting and drying dishes, and all of a sudden an invisible orchestra starts playing or someone picks up a ukulele that sounds like Gershwin at the Tropicana, and the star breaks into crystal-cracking song while everyone else dances around like it happens every day.

        Not in Cincinnati. Less than that could get you busted, with film at 11.

        In The Music Man, Robert Preston gets away with it as Professor Harold Hill, a handsome, silver-tongued swindler who uses his hypnotic charm to fleece gullible citizens. Just like Bill Clinton.

        He stirs up River City by telling them they've got trouble with a capital T that rhymes with P that stands for pool — making a new pool hall sound as scary as Bill Clinton's “worst economy in 50 years.”

        And then when he has the Iowa hayseeds whipped into a frenzy, he comes to the rescue with a marching band.

        The whole town lines the street when the Wells Fargo wagon comes to town, because it might bring raisins from Fresno or a new rockin' chair or “something very, very special just for me.” Just like a Clinton speech.

        Professor Hill hands out shiny new trumpets and drums and River City is ecstatic. And when the school board tries to corner him for credentials, he charms them into singing sweet harmonies — just the way the media chorus croons for Clinton.

        And all along, the Music Man only wants to empty their pockets and seduce the librarian. He can't play a lick of music.

        At the end, his rival traveling salesman House Managers get sick of watching the Music Man poison their territory and send an anvil peddler to expose the truth. Just like Ken Starr.

        There's even an impeachment vote. The mayor, obviously a Republican, wants to tar and feather Professor Hill. But pretty Marian librarian (Shirley Jones) loves the Music Man and defends him like a member of Soccer Moms for Clinton.

        “So what if he's a crooked fraud,” she says (more or less). “Didn't you feel better when you believed him?”

        One by one, the townspeople stand up to vote against the hot-tar impeachment because the Music Man made them feel good.

        The tongue-twisted mayor (Paul Ford), who talks like George W. Bush, rekindles their anger briefly by reminding them what they've lost: dignity, faith, honor, truth, hard-earned cash.

        But then the ragtag marching band shows up and plays a tune that sounds like clarinets murdering a tuba, and the whole town melts in admiration. The Music Man exits with a crash of cymbals, leading a parade of 76 Trombones.

        Great movie. But just a movie. In real life, the swindler seduced the librarian and took all the cash. And there he goes, strutting off down Main Street, still leading his imaginary marching band.

        Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call (513) 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.

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