Tancharoen has redacted everything edgy, making it ridiculous and redundant

Fame is fleeting. Even those who do get their fifteen minutes in the spotlight all too often find themselves back in the dark, only a faint memory in the minds of their once adoring fans. For the new cast of Fame, they barely get fifteen seconds and hardly justify a thought once the theater threshold has been crossed.

Director Kevin Tancharoen hasn’t remade Fame, he’s re-imagined it. In process, he’s redacted everything edgy, making it ridiculous and redundant. Seriously, for a bunch of kids living in New York City, they’re the lamest group ever. They make those High School Musical teens look like sluts and whores.

Predictably, Fame begins with auditions as budding musicians, dancers, and actors vie for a coveted spot at the Performing Arts High School. By the end of the long introduction, every quota has been filled: the female African American singer, the twerpy white film director, the Asian actress, the uptight white girl, the trouble African American guy, and so on. It’s actually quite handy that the cast represents a broad spectrum of races and performance genres because it’s the only way to remember who anyone is. Names barely stick to a character, and confusion ensues as Tancharoen jumps wildly between storylines and school years.

This apathy towards the characters really comes down to simple math, which, admittedly, is not why these kids are in school. If you take the number of leading roles (10), divide it into the length of the film (107 minutes), and then divide that by the number of grades the film covers (4), you’re seeing less than 3 minutes dedicated to any one student in a year. By the time you’ve remembered who they are, another school year has passed already.

But maybe that’s not the point of Fame; maybe the film is all about the grand musical numbers and big dance scenes and catchy tunes. If that’s the case, then the film merits a little more credit. Maybe a D+ instead of a D. The reason the music doesn’t negate the other failings is the disjointed manner in which Tancharoen approaches each number. One lunchroom scene (a nice nod to the original film) is an odd blend of rap, and tap, and drums, trying to be everything to everyone. Another performance is combined with a voiceover dialogue in an attempt to instill both with a undeserved poignancy. And the final number, clearly designed to be the grand finale, is so oddly choreographed that it’s downright laughable. Between an odd African tribal number and slow-motion jumps, the only way it could be more disastrous would be if it fell off the stage.

If one were forced to name a student of note on a pop quiz, the most likely answer would be Denise (Naturi Naughton), whose performance of “Out Here On My Own” is actually stirring. Otherwise, it’s only the teachers played by actors prepossessing fame (Kelsey Grammer, Bebe Neuwirth, Megan Mullally, and Charles S. Dutton) who make an impression. Not that screenwriter Allison Burnett gives them much. They’re trotted out to say profound things about art and stardom, which essential just reinforce the notion that teaching is a fall-back to success, before being relegated back to the wings.

In the interest of perspective, I attend the film with a friend who actually attended a performing arts high school. Her assessment was that director Tancharoen and writer Burnett got one thing right. “Yeah, we were that pretentious about our art.” Ouch.

For a film with a title track that repeats “remember, remember, remember my name” to be so utterly forgettable is the most entertaining part of the project. You’re better off skipping this dud and re-watching an episode of “Glee” instead.