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December 5, 2003

There was a time — long, long ago, my children — when Hollywood was the place where good musicals went to veg out. A racy, vivacious Broadway show like ”Pal Joey” or ”Kiss Me, Kate” would rush to California for a glamorous big-screen makeover and wind up with a lobotomy. Sure, there were exceptions. But more often than not, what finally lumbered into movie theaters resembled the neutered, empty-eyed Jack Nicholson at the end of ”One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

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