MAKING NICE

This essay about some of the changes that were made in characterization when West Side Story was adapted for the screen is divided into sections corresponding to the characters as shown below. This list is also a menu to assist in navigating to different areas of the page. Clicking the underlined Name will take you to the corresponding section. Clicking the title logo located at various intervals throughout the essay will return you to this menu. [An unenhanced reading and printable version is available here. Use your browser's Back button to return.]

Introduction
MARIA
TONY
RIFF
ANITA
BERNARDO
AND SO FORTH

When putting on a stage production of a well-known work, performers in stock, community and amateur theater are often tempted to view the most professional production at their disposal in hopes of picking up pointers to aid them in their own performances. The most convenient crib-sheet is the film version of the show, if there is one, and the more popular the film the more likely it will be consulted. Back in the day, a director might take the opportunity to rent a projector and obtain a rare (and occasionally black market) copy of a film, sit his cast down facing a movie screen and show the cinematic work. In the age of home video the event is less complicated and not even illegal, although just as many directors warn against the practice as undertake it. The idea has no integral lack of merit, although variables exist that make its success less than foolproof. Factors to be considered are the quality of the film being consulted and its relationship (which is to say, resemblance) to the stage play being presented; others issues are the extent of the director's use of the film as a tool, and the cast's reaction to a professional version of their own presumably humbler efforts. A director worth the title will not merely run the film and then say: "OK do that, what they did," and fold his arms until opening night. The most effective wisdom of this exercise is to avoid forcing your cast to imitate a Hollywood presentation, but rather simply suggest: "This is the way the professionals did it. We can use this as a basis…" On the plus side, the entire cast is expeditiously and painlessly made aware of any number of elements important to the task at hand: An attitude, a style, an atmosphere. And if nothing else, it's a night at the movies, a treasured couple of hours of merciful relief from the hectic grind of rehearsal. If you happen to be doing Li'l Abner, just for example, watching the film will give you a very vivid idea of what the stage play was like. How to Succeed plays similarly, despite being "opened up." Guys and Dolls poses a problem in its distinct departure from the original, Cabaret even more so, though both can be enjoyed for atmosphere alone and, once again, it's a great night out. [By no means is this exercise is confined to musicals; the film versions of The Miracle Worker, Cactus Flower, Lovers and Other Strangers, etc. have provided assistance to amateur and stock companies since the day they were released.] Directors do not always recommend this route—watching a jazzy interpretation of a certain song or dance might inhibit and discourage the less talented community librarian and storekeeper who have to perform it for their neighbors, or, worse, may actually inspire them to do things God intended them not to do. Exposure to a film is sometimes unavoidable: If you're going to direct The Sound of Music you can expect that a portion of your cast (not to mention your audience) has already seen the movie and may even be able to hum a tune or two. Convincing the leading lady that she is not Julie Andrews (and certainly doesn't need to be) is a problem you bought into when you agreed to do the show in the first place. If you happen to be inspired enough to be doing West Side Story, convincing the folks in question that they are not Rita Moreno and Russ Tamblyn is not only required but crucial. Even in the unlikely event that you are harboring such talent in your organization, the model performances that were so ideal in the film might not be what you're looking for on stage—and as far-fetched and blasphemous as it sounds, you probably can do better.

The notion that the film, or any professional presentation of a work, is some kind of ideal and archetypical prototype is an obvious assumption and not a universal one. An ambitious and creative director who is undertaking a musical from the canon may very well ignore any temptation to study the film—indeed may never be so tempted. If I were ever so fortunate to direct or consult on a production of West Side Story, I would recommend—no, insist—that every member of the troupe have a look at the film, and "every member" includes the musicians, the costume coordinator, the hair and makeup people, the experts overseeing the decidedly non-cinematic lighting, sound and props departments, and, perhaps especially, the guy selling orange juice at intermission. No one should be denied the opportunity to see (or see again) this brilliant presentation, either as homework or for the sheer aesthetic of viewing a masterpiece. I would expect my costumer and choreographer to find their own integrity and creativity unhampered and uninhibited from exposure to the quintessential film. I would expect my conductor to be impressed, my dancers to be inspired. I would be satisfied knowing that my backstage crew and even the orange juice guy now had a clue, if they didn't before. But I would have a little chat with a certain five of my performers—at least five—who knew the film West Side Story to make sure we were all doing the same show.

In 1961 the career of Natalie Wood was, in the language of the turf, skyrocketing. Notwithstanding the subsequent arguments about correctness in ethnic casting, and questionable singing and even acting talent, by the standards of the day Miss Wood was an inspired choice for the leading role, and thus the producers had a well-known and appealing star to put in the front window. By now Rita Moreno and Russ Tamblyn were also familiar to moviegoers, if not in the same highly bankable category. Richard Beymer had already enjoyed high visibility as the young boy in The Diary of Anne Frank and was being touted as something of a heartthrob. Of the five only George Chakiris could be considered a newcomer, although by this time he had been dancing in movie chorus lines for years. One imagines the wheels turning within the collective mind of the studio suits as they planned to make the public aware of their new and unusual project.

On the one hand you had this exciting blockbuster musical project under way— original, dark, edgy, and radical in its departure from the formulaic good cheer and happy ending of the tried-and-true Hollywood musical. On the other hand you had something of a publicist's dream facing you, if you chose to pursue it: The hot new Broadway musical was being filmed with five adorable young faces who were ripe for the Hollywood rush treatment of fan magazine covers and photo shoots at the Brown Derby. So in order to sell a ticket, do you emphasize the story or the stars? No one needed to mull this over for too long: a story framed around three deaths, an attempted rape, and the general atmosphere of racial prejudice and animosity would not be an easy sell to the public—especially as a musical—despite the positive reception of the stage productions. Only marginally less promising was the prospect of marketing the characters themselves, a group that included two killers, the sexual-assault victim, and the two lovers who had consummated their relationship without benefit of clergy, not too many hours before the boy's death. If the material within the piece was deemed a tough sell, the publicists still had the luxury of promoting the production itself, and its stars: The adaptation of a successful Broadway show usually suggested a respectable, classy product, and the desire to exploit the youth and talent of the leading performers must have been truly irresistible, regardless of the sins of their screen personae. And if promoting the characters ever seemed a problem, the finished product was in fact the solution, as those characters underwent the Tinseltown purification treatment; the screenwriter, whether by instinct or instruction, appeared to have made a concerted effort to infuse in at least these five a dose of what can be called Hollywood Likeability. The results are five characters, neither wildly different from nor precisely identical to their stage antecedents, each possessing attributes (and lacking others) that, coincidentally or not, desirably or not, carry noticeably more appeal than the stage script ever indicated or implied to be necessary. In a word, they got Nice.

MARIA. Capsule descriptions of Maria invariably include suggestions of purity, innocence, and naïveté. This exercise submits that she is none of those things, except in the biblical sense, a nominal qualification that comes crashing down midway through Act Two. She is no angel by any intelligent definition of the word or concept, most certainly not by 1957 definitions. Maria is a wide-eyed enthusiastic young girl but her innocence is mostly technical. References like "I have not yet learned to joke that way" and the complacent attempt at blackmail over events witnessed in movie balconies indicate a savvy and even shrewd young woman of humor, cleverness, and what used to be called feminine wiles. Only the soft-spoken, sunny and frequently delicate performance of Natalie Wood rescues the character from exploring darker territory more often visited by stage actresses playing the role, beginning with the gifted Carol Lawrence.

The very introduction of this character finds her delivering the first of her numerous dissatisfactions and demands. A conservative girlhood dress is being altered for the imminent dance, and Maria is not content with the limited changes being wrought by the dressmaker, her confidante Anita. She expects to be dressed more maturely and, surprisingly, more revealingly. The first impressions from this pat, admirably compact introduction of Maria are twofold: We know immediately that she has an (understandable) agenda to appear more adult than this particular dress will permit her, and generally we also see a decisive (and, as it turns out, characteristic) plan to have her own way, coupled with an annoying combination of disobedience and lack of discipline that, in certain circles, is defined as "bratty." In other words, our first meeting with Maria finds her insistently and rather petulantly attempting to control events despite the counsel of an apparent mentor and not above threatening, playfully or not, some casual blackmail to achieve the goal.

The portrait of a strong-willed young woman of determination continues throughout the play. Situations surrounding her meet with her displeasure and she is quick and forceful in her efforts to correct them. The concession on the altered dress occurs only after she is given to realize she is not dissatisfied at all. Her next stop, the fateful meeting at the dance, strongly suggests a defiant spirit. Though her quasi-guardian Bernardo clearly faults Tony with the responsibility for the crossing the barrier, it is just as evident that for her part Maria has willfully disobeyed what we must assume to be clear and vigorous instructions from her brother. This defiance carries itself to the famous fire escape scene, where she is simultaneously ignoring the wishes of her brother and both parents! The deceit continues as she makes another date with the boy without hesitation and carefully arranges to keep the budding romance under wraps ("Use the back door"). The argument that she is only being cautious can be countered by the observation that she is being cautious not to get caught at something she knows she shouldn't be doing. A line like "I cannot stay—go quickly" can be read as prudent and sensible, and also as controlling. Her List of Demands reaches a high point in arrogance when she urgently asks Tony to stop the rumble, without acknowledging his independent effort to reduce the battle to a fistfight. She is not bashful about ordering around the mother of Christ ("Make it not be true") or about counseling Tony to continue to go against the law and not turn himself in as he intended to. Her confrontation with Anita is no less supercilious ("Now you know") or condescending ("You were in love, or so you said" rather smugly indicates that Maria's worldly knowledge has overtaken that of Anita in a matter of hours), though she is civil enough when recruiting Anita as a pawn in her chess game ("My head is worse…Will you go for me, Anita?") The portrait of Maria as power-seeker climaxes with the ultimate mortal example of control: Power over life itself, as she literally wields a deadly weapon at every surviving character present. She is inevitably viewed as a tragic figure of sorrowful bereavement—as opposed to, say, Juliet, who at least gets to join her husband in the afterlife—but try as Maria might to put the blame elsewhere in the cast, the undeniable facts exist that the final tragedy was the result of her own interfering machinations.

Stage Opportunity. Not that this doesn't happen in the film to a certain degree, and without stooping to the cliché of "Latin spitfire," a stage Maria can rise above the limitations of a saccharine young innocent and graduate into the feisty saucy person that is the screen Anita (albeit a younger, less sophisticated version of her): Maria as written is willful, headstrong, challenging to authority, and very adamant about having her way, much like the character portrayed by Rita Moreno. (The relentless good humor and vivacity can easily be included in the package.) Naturally this version of Maria only works if the stage Anita opposite her has also adopted a different take from her film counterpart (see "Anita" section below). Such a Maria would, for example, be more condescending to Chino, especially if he is played as the meek underling who breaks through only at the climax. (In the film, she expresses her dissatisfaction/disappointment but she is never rude to him.) She would be resentful, rather than just complacent, of her brother's over-protective attitude. Her reaction to her parents' watchfulness would be impatient instead of resigned and cautious. Her growing strength would intimidate, rather than cajole, even the cast-iron Anita into running the fatal errand. By virtue of her active, obvious participation in the escalating events, she would at last be a liable partner in the tragedy and not merely a blameless bystanding victim of "everything around us."

Film. The very casting of Natalie Wood, who could assuredly be a firebrand but more often was not, indicates without question the intention to favor Nice Maria over Manipulative Maria. She is an endearing and likeable cherub and gets through the entire List of Demands without losing an atom of her affable and engaging charm, or the audience's sympathies, no small feat. This is arguably the toughest role to put across with credibility, and Natalie Wood and her directors have preserved an extraordinary portrait of a girl who is at once admirable and willful, tender and strong—quite likely the most agreeable Maria possible.

TONY. In his journey from stage to screen, the restless ex-gang member becomes a more composed, even effete young man with no apparent kinship to the gang he once led. This odd transformation occurs partly due to the casting of Richard Beymer in the role, who presents a clean-cut adult, palpably lacking the rowdy aggressiveness and street smarts of the other boys around him, a character choice not typically adopted by the stage actors of record who have played the role. The Nice Theory applies to this performance perhaps more than any of the others, but it confounds the more conventional rules of polite society in proving that "nicer" doesn't always mean "better."

By definition, for the sake of the very plot itself, Tony is undeniably an ex-member of a street gang, in fact a founder and leader of a street gang. There is no reason why he should not be played, as he most often reliably is played, just as tough, cocky, savvy, and "street" as the current gang members and their rivals. (One actor said to be under consideration for the role was Russ Tamblyn.) Mr Beymer's characterization plays in sore-thumb opposition to such homogeneity. He is different from his peers in every way, in style and stature, in speech, in manner and dress, in direction and commitment. He has dumped the Jets with no ceremony and no regrets. While this decision is understandable, the lack of emotion is curious. Mr Beymer dryly acknowledges his abrupt dismissal of the gang, which includes the dismissal of his bosom buddy Riff, with no reluctance or misgivings, suggesting a lack of passion that is not exactly flattering to the character nor helpful to the story. He seems only mildly curious about a recurring dream of promise, more mystified than energized. His vision of "something coming" does not indicate the pulsing and yearning excitement of a young man aching to confront his destiny (an excitement suggested at least by the tempo of the song, not to mention the recorded example of the original Tony, Larry Kert). With his button-down shirt and gleaming smile, Richard Beymer delivers the song like a performer on a variety show, neither keyed up nor buoyant, simply a likeable young man who knows the lyrics and remembers to face the camera. His dubbed "rendition" of "Maria" is no less of a hammy show-biz offering, though some atmospheric camerawork makes for a partial rescue of this robotic sequence.

The character sits idling for too long in this impotent state, neither a buoyant Romeo nor even a reflective Hamlet. A more electric, less controlled interpretation might have presented to the audience a higher degree of credibility in Tony's gutter background, a logical, rooted connection to the events that transpire. But instead, since he has manifested no toughness, no street wisdom, and not much in the way of a spine, his fateful contribution to the mix—the promise to stop the rumble—comes off more as an act of impulsive hubris, a happy young guy trying to impress his pretty new gal, than as the result of any confident authority or negotiating skill he might have acquired from his familiarity with the turf. In addressing the Jets and Sharks during the War Council, Mr Beymer's Tony is superior and pedantic (and admittedly, at the moment, not very Nice), attempting to reduce or eliminate the gang warfare by belittling it as childish. By allowing Tony to be condescending, above it all, and smug in the bargain, the film misses the point that he is basically a good kid fervently trying to accomplish a good thing against all odds, instead of the superior and derogating teacher's pet of this scene. Apart from this disagreeable lapse, the cinematic Tony is the definition of Nice, and by the time Anita's rebuking "A Boy Like That" is heard, one can only wonder, "A Boy Like What?" He appears so passive and sinless that the offhand stunt of opening an unpurchased bottle of cola seems a reckless act of turpitude. We know that Anita's plaintive objections to the romance are colored by one particular recent event, but in her own dismal sorrow she has bitterly misjudged him; Tony commits murder not out of simmering hate but out of misguided fraternal retaliation, already a victim of circumstance, the quintessential man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There exists a school of thought that states the work is actually about Tony, not Maria and Tony. Audiences are quickly drawn to the character who moves the action along with two of the first three vocal presentations in the piece, the only two solo numbers in the score. While the musical is generally (and correctly) considered an ensemble piece, Tony is arguably the single continuous thread throughout the work, interacting directly with most of the other characters, and it is his Shakespearean "tragic flaw," more so even than that of Romeo, that leads to the fatal events that conclude both acts. A more passionate reading, a boy less sure of his bridge-burning, more believable as a street hood resuming his authority, is a significant flame of the fire that the performance lacks. The decision to sweeten up the persona of a gritty believable hero remains the outstanding mystery of the transfer to film.

Film. This performance, routinely cited as the weakest in the film, suffers mainly from the total isolation projected by the actor and clearly endorsed by at least one of the directors, as well as a kind of stately, aloof disconnection to the street boys of both gangs with whom we are meant to believe he once doubtlessly "mixed." It is hard to accept the plot-crucial idea that this tall, smooth, rather patrician article even led a gang, much less started one and maintained a loyal following. His interference in the War Council seems to be the intrusion of a perfect stranger—and a detached, superior one at that, a frustrated teacher or an angry, over-burdened social worker—rather than the trustworthy counsel of a former leader. The Nice Factor does not contribute a positive element, but in fact makes his character and much of his action incongruent to the events. The actor's mismatch to his romantic leading lady is the great flaw of the work, no fault of hers and not much of his; the classic film that is meant to be the modern re-telling of Shakespeare's timeless love story has as its least convincing element the love story itself. As noted above, here is a case where "nice" is synonymous with "bland;" the attraction felt by the romantic young girl is the film's second outstanding mystery.

Stage opportunity. The relative polish and aplomb the film actor employed is not the usual direction given to the stage Tonys of note. They have invariably been tougher, more emotional, and more down to earth. The fantastic vision of an imminent event in Tony's life can thus be chalked up to the restless longing of a boy only beginning to embrace maturity. Tony is a wild boy making a determined effort to tame himself, not a prep-school graduate who has completed the task even before we meet him. In the matter of this progress, the film may actually be truer to the text, because if nothing else the chap in the film has made his break, clearly and thoroughly, and it is his agreement to keep the date with Riff that does not ring true. Nevertheless, with the same dialogue, stage performers have managed to convey the idea that Tony is still just pecking at the shell and the trip to the dance is not much of a backslide into not-so-old habits. (The play makes it clear that Tony's departure from the gang is only about a month old. No such indication is made in the film, justifying the suggestion that all scars have healed.) Similarly, his abrupt and uninvited commandeering of the War Council chairmanship is not a far-fetched stretch when the boy is clearly at home there, as a recent gang member and not necessarily a reformed one. The Hollywood of a later era might have let the edgier Tony into the picture, most likely with open arms. Luckily the foundation of the film is solid enough to withstand an ill-considered interpretation of even this pivotal character.

RIFF. The decision of the filmmakers to have Riff played as an ably qualified and self-confident leader is neither a matter of random choice nor a lucky guess, but any number of stage actors have been more than mildly successful in their efforts to find different levels to this character. Russ Tamblyn turns in a comprehensive performance that is difficult to emulate, but it is a mistake to assume that his is the only right way to do it.

Film. The consummate performance of Russ Tamblyn encompasses virtually all of the positive attributes of the character and deals with almost none of the negative. This Riff has taught his boys to return stray baseballs and borrowed basketballs, to respect the space of children in the playground. He is not the leader of a gang whose members would stink-bomb a store owned by a Puerto Rican businessman. His "Officer Krupke" rendition is played strictly for laughs. He is very much a model citizen. One wonders how this Boy Scout ever became so proficient with a lethal weapon. Filmgoers are shocked, shocked when they hear this nice young man order Doc out of his own store. One bit of Old Testament morality exists in the positive evaluation of his character: Of the three victims, he is the only one who isn't a killer himself.

The breezy, sauntering self-confidence that defines this interpretation is not consistent with every detail of the story. Riff is not offended by the suggestion that he has to bring a lieutenant to the War Council; not only does he agree but he has a candidate in mind. The notion that this character even needs a lieutenant at all, nominating a renegade rather than any one of the loyal members surrounding him, is a plot contrivance that works only if Riff is played with a great deal less self-assurance and more empty bravado, an alternative that has its own share of pros and cons.

Stage opportunity. A performance that shows Riff to be anything less than the solid, cool-headed and motivated young man as portrayed in the film risks being a disappointment to audiences who have bestowed the seal of approval on the brilliant film characterization, an audience in whose company I freely admit to belonging. Despite the occasional and not unexpected bursts of passion, Mr. Tamblyn's Riff is the essence of "cool," even if he doesn't get to sing about it. But a marginally less confident Riff can sell the story without any inconsistencies. Someone not quite as sure of himself would indeed harshly evict a storeowner from his own premises, if only to establish authority. (The film Riff poses no question, his authority is palpable.) Someone less confident would have private motives for securing the company of Tony at the dance and presumably at the War Council later. (The film Riff asks Tony to accompany him and promptly forgets him—Tony's presence makes no contribution to Riff's agenda at the dance.)

Someone as practical and smart as Mr. Tamblyn plays him might indeed be very adept with a knife but not necessarily as hasty with it. We would not be as surprised to see someone less level-headed, more needful of proving himself, flip open a switchblade and begin the inevitable. (It is fair to note that Riff wants to hold the turf like they always held it "with skin," and his actual first thrust is a fist and not a switchblade.) If Russ Tamblyn's character were to sing "Cool," I would believe it. In singing this song, most of the stage Riffs in my experience did not practice what they preached.

Points are awarded to Michael Callan, then known as Mickey Calin, for his much-praised performance as the original Riff. His raspy, city-boy vocals as preserved on the Broadway cast recording indeed suggest the picture of a cocky and undisciplined delinquent. Photos of the stage action bear out this impression; whether he is seen in T-shirt and jeans or jacket and tie, some near-explosive quality is palpable. (The sideburns, now, are misleading, as such adornment has since become a middle-class expression of fashion and hip grooming, but at the time they clearly spelled trouble.) This dark, moody young man was not meant to sing a goofy chorus of "Officer Krupke" to pass the time, but was more ideally suited to play a brooding, aimless youngster with questions about Tony's disloyalty and the Sharks invasion of his home space. These dramatic elements are not necessarily ignored in the film, but they are addressed with the cocksure confidence of the amiable and slightly wacky Tamblyn, who expresses no doubt or uncertainty about anything, least of all his own abilities and loyalties. The Nice application works here—his Riff is certainly the most affable and endearing character of at least the male contingent, assisted to no small extent by the comic relief of the showcase "Krupke" number, and by his breathtaking physical tumbling. These twin circus elements—clown and acrobat—allow us to enjoy his antics without suspicion or caution, and to remember him fondly, without retaining less pleasant memories of the darker side. The stage Riff, starting with the admirable Michael Callan, has no circus to see him through, and thus is more consistently dark and ominous, occasionally even sinister. The death of the stage Riff is a poetic—yes, Shakespearean—device to incite the vengeful death of his killer. The death of the film Riff is nothing less than that, but it is also a sad and very heartfelt farewell to a nice guy.

ANITA. Here we have the uncontested Favorite, the performance that in the opinion of many is the brightest star in the galaxy of the film (and, some say, of the play, no small thanks to the legendary Chita Rivera). There is nothing to dislike in the remarkable performance of Rita Moreno, and diehard fans of the charming, fun-loving and winsome woman who lights up the film are reluctant to concede that it is this very lovable young lady's spiteful lie that brings the story to its tragic conclusion, adamantly invoking the cruel provocation by the suddenly not-so-Nice Jets. Some familiarity with the work of various stage actresses who have assayed this role is required to fully appreciate what happens on the screen. Ms Moreno's ability to make it look easy may be the outstanding triumph of the performance. Anita truly sparkles on screen, and she truly does not have to. The performance shines thanks to this unique and inspired choice of characterization, but "choice" is indeed what it was.

Film. By virtue of an incredibly shrewd or lucky coup of casting, audiences have come to perceive the role of Anita to encompass many genial things without realizing that much of the glitter and charm comes from the actress and not necessarily from the script. Her introductory spat over the design of the dress comes across at worst moody and impatient, but never really stern. She shines, as she is meant to, at the gym and on the rooftop, and her championing of Maria is heartfelt and indeed passionate, never bossy or condescending. In one man's opinion, the scene in the bridal shop, when Tony arrives to meet his new sweetheart, is the primary if not the sole reason an Academy Award went in her direction; Ms Moreno manages to flash surprise, anger, dismay, disapproval in only a few expressions and postures, and only after running that gauntlet does she take the opportunity to be stern in her warning to Maria about returning home promptly. Thanks to a change in the lyrics, the Anita of the film Quintet enjoys looking forward to a promising evening in the company of her boyfriend, with no reference to the more suggestive encounter her stage counterparts are clearly expecting. In her duet with Maria, Anita astonishingly manages to mix sadness and disappointment into her anger. The good will and good intentions behind her drugstore errand make the taunting episode yet another tragedy, another bad thing happening to yet another nice person. Rita Moreno deservedly enjoys much of the credit for bringing this complex character to a high and absolutely credible level of audience approval. Given the theory that audience sympathy is more crucial to the success of a film than to that of a play, the efforts are understandable and the results are extraordinary.

Stage Opportunity. The stage directions for the Promenade indicate that Bernardo "steps forward, leading Anita as though he were presenting the most magnificent lady in all the world." In the film this is not much of a stretch, but as written it must be dripping irony, since Anita is usually no lady. In terms of characterization, Anita is written not much differently than her opposites in the Jets, Velma and Graziella. The suggestion of Anita stepping into the scene in fishnet stockings, a mouth full of chewing gum, brandishing a tattoo here and there is a far cry from the relatively respectable film Anita, but this image comes a lot closer to the real choices made by Anitas and their directors since the beginning, especially in view of the chore of playing opposite a boyfriend who, congruently, is a much darker edition of Bernardo.

To compare the examples listed above—the wrangle over the re-designed dress is usually harsher and more forceful than it is played in the film (again, a stage Anita will need to be stronger and tougher if her Maria is working at a heightened level of pushy behavior.). Her attitude about the dress is hardly conciliatory. Her greetings to Bernardo and Chino are not at all playful and in fact were re-written for the film, with clever tempering effect. Her appearance at the gym truly mirrors the attitudes displayed by the two lead Jet girls, sulky, suspicious and sneering. Her defense of Maria is more antagonistic to Bernardo than helpful to the sister, and the points made in her big song, directed now to the empty-headed Rosalia and not to her more evenly matched fella, are raucous and patronizing instead of satiric and playful. Her encounter with Maria and Tony in the bridal shop is certainly not complex and anything but subtle, and her remark "How can I hear what goes on twelve feet over my head?" is less a confirmation of weary acceptance into the conspiracy than an angry surrender to the inevitable. During the Quintet, Anita's expectations cannot be misinterpreted, and the confrontation near the recently vacated bed is, of course, explosive. An Anita who has followed this path to the drugstore to meet the Jets will be a woman who knows exactly what she is facing and proceeds with defiance, and not merely with the hope that her polite requests to see Doc will be honored. The stage character willfully forces herself into the scene where she knows she does not belong and presumably is aware of the chances she is taken, whereas the film Anita seems to be taken by horrified surprise that this humiliation could befall her. The great inconsistency is the agreement to run the errand in the first place: To fit the part as described here, Anita would quite believably have told Maria to climb a tree rather than take it upon herself to pitch in and help re-unite the lovers; the less literal hand of Shakespeare seems to be visible here more than anywhere else in the work.

In the end Mr. Laurents' story claims victory over Ms Moreno's Niceness. Anita's absence from the final scene—a recurring intrigue in chat room discussions—manifests her new, self-inflicted rank and station. Without Bernardo, her niche—perhaps even her identity in the group—is shattered, and her bitter lie has made her an exile. No amount of Nice could grease her re-entry into the society after these fateful and inalterable events occur. The absence may not be as glaring when the lady isn't all that nice to begin with.

BERNARDO. Due partly to yet another invaluable decision of casting and partly to a conscious effort of the filmmakers, this character more than any of the others is elevated in stature and prominence in the transition from stage to film. While he is hardly a minor character in the play, the film provides a showcase for one of the best all around acting/dancing performances delivered in the entire work.

The memorable performance of George Chakiris is probably the most credible in the piece, not to say in the world of musical films. Bernardo comes across as the commodity he is supposed to be, and not, as is the case elsewhere, an actor trying to be that commodity with only partial success. Everything he says and does, sings and dances, is perfectly consistent to both the character and the story. The capering on the rooftop, for random example, rings truer than the less likely juvenilia of "Gee, Officer Krupke." He is also spared any sentimental ("One Hand One Heart") or elaborate ("A Boy Like That") musical expression of character. Nothing this boy does requires any suspension of disbelief. There are no compromises, and no fakes: Of the five, he is the only one whose singing is not dubbed, even partially so. Of the five, there is no evidence of a better trained and more exciting dancer.

It should be noted, with whatever great or little value thus attached, that George Chakiris is the only one of these five players with West Side Story stage experience, which is to say Jerome Robbins stage experience. In fairness to four other actors and actresses working with what they had, the role of Bernardo, uniquely, was conscientiously and rather painstakingly enhanced for the film. Screenwriter and/or directors and/or producers saw a need, and so it came to pass. More and better dialogue was inserted, and the character displayed more humanity, was less of a caricature. The upgrading of "America" from stage to film makes Bernardo's new Niceness a cinch. And in equal fairness to him, Mr. Chakiris rises to the occasion with deceptively effortless talent.

Stage. As indicated above, this is the single example among the five whose stage version is a come-down from the film. In the original, Bernardo is an angry young man and little else. None of the warmth of the film character exists on stage. He is denied participation in the single great song of the film Sharks; his vocal contribution is limited to his part of the Quintet, which offers no opportunity for a solo. His guardianship of Maria appears to be not so much a protective fraternal gesture than yet another angry anti-Jet sentiment. He is, invariably, the essence of the stereotype the film manages to avoid, a hot-tempered undisciplined powder keg who gets neither more nor less than he deserved. In a work that is sadly Jets-biased, this figurehead never gets the opportunity to emerge into a third dimension. The fact of Bernardo is a drama-driven necessity. The character, the Leader of the Sharks, is more of a plot point than a person. He is prominent in the story, but the acting role is not in proportion to this prominence. Doubtlessly the talented actor-dancer Ken Le Roy, who created the role, put everything he had into it, but there is a sense that he had more to put in and nowhere to put it.

Film Opportunity. The re-worked dialogue and lyrics combined with the gifted efforts of George Chakiris created the sleek package that is Bernardo on film and rightfully brought him into the "star" circle, if this film has such an area. Bernardo is now every particle the equal of Riff, not only in the world of the fictional story but in actual performance and screen time. Having a show-stopping song and dance to his credit is not unwarranted for a major player of a musical, but fans are grateful for this inspired modification all the same. While the role of Bernardo may considerably less showy, less athletic and brash than that of his Jet counterpart—misleading the harsher critics to deride Mr. Chakiris' Academy Award win as "Best Performance by a Supporting Actor in a Red Shirt"—only one or two repeated viewings will testify to the remarkable skill George Chakiris applies to his role.

ET ALIA. The Nice theory extends far enough into the rest of the cast to provide some degree of self-fulfilling credibility. As usual, there are fewer opportunities for comparison between the two versions of the Sharks, but generally speaking the Nice rule applies to them, by virtue of the light tone set by the brilliant updated version of "America." The film Jets have a proportionally higher basis of comparison.

In the film, the Jets specifically are introduced as young men who decline no fewer than three opportunities to harass local children and young neighborhood sports enthusiasts. The street mischief and pranks depicted in the film Prologue testify to nothing more aggressive than a desire to stay afloat in the face of adversity. The malice of the stage Jets, beginning with the startling reportage of a stink-bomb thrown into the Shark leader's family store, paints a decidedly edgier portrait. Once again it appears that the whitewash was a deliberate mandate of the screenwriter: Even the minor infraction of sneaking into a movie house was squeegeed out of the film in the ongoing effort to keep the picture clean. Though not necessarily part of this agenda, the mentholated lyrics of "Gee, Officer Krupke" feed the image of juvenile harmlessness and effectively remove the sardonic and savvy attitudes of the stage version. In its place, the remorse of the film Jets that briefly precedes the "Cool" number is a sentiment unknown to the stage boys, who are mostly interested in covering their butts and have no time (or inclination) to dally with the grieving process. Tiger's observation "No one was supposed to get…" is baffling. Clearly someone was supposed to, and did, but this Monday-morning quarterbacking is reserved for the film only; the stage Jets are immune to any grief or compunction in the event, an indifference that posits the aptness of a spirited song like "Krupke" even after the deaths, a circumstance that fans of the film find mystifying.

Nice or not, both sets of Jets take an ugly turn for the worse when confronting Anita in the drugstore, but even here the stage boys turn up the steam higher than the film gang did. Many more graphic moves and gyrations, forbidden in a general-release film of 1961, are routinely employed in the stage choreography, including the humiliating flipping of Anita's skirt over her face. This inevitable climax of the story protects the film Jets from the danger of being incurably Nice, but the stage Jets who declare that they are walking the world the way they found it are more or less confirming the bitterness of their consistent behavior, whereas the film Jets, perhaps more dramatically, are suddenly harsher and more dangerous than we may have thought them to be.

In the matter of the taunting scene, and generally in the matter of all such comparisons, it should go without saying that a 21st-century film version of this work may not be inclined to file down the rough edges. For its time West Side Story was a ground-breaking work, and no late-blooming apologies are necessary. This masterpiece is its own reason for existence. The foregoing exercise takes no interest in the notion that the film is wrong, watered-down, or somehow unworthy of its notoriety. It only states that the film is one singular version of the source material, told in what might be interpreted as a specific industry-mandated style, and there are places outside the Hollywood product to see and appreciate the true genius of West Side Story.