# Barbra Streisand: The Story Behind Fanny Brice in Funny Girl
When Barbra Streisand stepped onto the Broadway stage as Fanny Brice in 1964, she wasn’t just playing a role — she was fulfilling a destiny that seemed written in the stars. Like Brice, Streisand was a Jewish girl with an unconventional nose, an unstoppable drive, and a voice that could stop time. Like Brice, she had been told she wasn’t pretty enough for stardom. And like Brice, she proved everyone wrong so completely that the doubters became footnotes in her legend.
But the road from Broadway triumph to film immortality in Funny Girl (1968) was anything but smooth. It involved a legendary producer’s gamble, a director who didn’t want her, a co-star rivalry that became Hollywood lore, and a performance so incandescent that it won her the Academy Award — in a tie, no less — on her very first film.
The Girl from Brooklyn
Barbara Joan Streisand (she dropped the second “a” from Barbara as a teenager, finding it more distinctive) was born on April 24, 1942, in Brooklyn, New York. Her father, Emanuel, died when she was 15 months old, leaving her mother, Diana, to raise two children in near-poverty. It was not a childhood that suggested future stardom.
Young Barbra was, by her own admission, an odd child — intense, ambitious, and utterly convinced of her own destiny. “I knew I was going to be famous,” she later said. “I didn’t know how, but I knew.” She was also, crucially, told repeatedly that she wasn’t pretty enough to be a star. Her nose was too big, her eyes too close together. Agents suggested a nose job. She refused — a decision that would become central to her mythology.
“I didn’t get the nose fixed because I didn’t trust anyone’s taste,” she explained decades later. “Besides, where would my comedy come from?”
She began singing in clubs as a teenager, developing a style that was utterly unique: part Broadway belt, part jazz phrasing, part classical precision. Her voice — with its crystalline clarity, perfect pitch, and emotional directness — was unlike anything anyone had heard. By 1962, at age 20, she had a recording contract with Columbia Records. By 1964, she was starring on Broadway.
Fanny Brice: The Perfect Role
Fanny Brice (1891-1951) was a real person: a Ziegfeld Follies star famous for her comedy, her singing, and her tragic marriage to gambler Nick Arnstein. The musical Funny Girl, with music by Jule Styne and lyrics by Bob Merrill, fictionalized her story — focusing on her rise from Brooklyn (like Streisand) to stardom, and her doomed love for the charming, unreliable Nick.
Producer Ray Stark, who was Brice’s son-in-law (he’d married her daughter), had been developing the project for years. He’d considered Mary Martin, Anne Bancroft, and even considered making it a straight drama. But when he saw the 21-year-old Streisand performing in a tiny revue, he knew he’d found his Fanny.
The Broadway production, which opened on March 26, 1964, was a sensation — though not without drama. Streisand clashed with director Garson Kanin, rewrote her own dialogue, and insisted on controlling every aspect of her performance. Critics were divided on the show but unanimous on her: she was a once-in-a-generation talent. She received a Tony nomination (losing to Carol Channing for Hello, Dolly!) but won something more valuable — the certainty that she was a star.
The Film: A Director Who Didn’t Want Her
When it came time to film Funny Girl, Ray Stark wanted Streisand to reprise her role. The studio, Columbia Pictures, was less sure. Film was different from Broadway, they argued. Would her mannerisms work on camera? Was she “pretty” enough for close-ups? (The question seems absurd now, but it was asked seriously in 1967.)
Stark insisted, and he got his way — but at a cost. The director he hired, William Wyler, was a Hollywood legend (Ben-Hur, Roman Holiday, The Best Years of Our Lives) but had never directed a musical. Worse, Wyler didn’t want Streisand. He’d wanted Shirley MacLaine. He made his feelings clear from the start, and the shoot was tense.
Streisand, making her film debut, was terrified — and it showed in her perfectionism. She demanded take after take. She questioned Wyler’s choices. She insisted on overseeing her own close-ups. The crew began calling her “the director” behind her back.
But Wyler, to his credit, eventually recognized what he had. “She’s the most talented person I’ve ever worked with,” he admitted during filming. “She just doesn’t know how to do nothing. Every moment has to be filled.” He learned to give her space, and she learned to trust the camera.
The Co-Star Tension
Playing Nick Arnstein was Omar Sharif, the Egyptian star of Lawrence of Arabia and Doctor Zhivago. He was handsome, charming, and — by his own admission — completely unprepared for Streisand.
Their relationship on set was famously strained. Sharif was a Method actor who liked to improvise; Streisand was a control freak who had every gesture planned. He found her exhausting. She found him undisciplined. The tension, paradoxically, worked for the story — Nick and Fanny’s relationship is supposed to be passionate but fundamentally mismatched.
Years later, Sharif was generous in retrospect: “She was the most determined person I ever met. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she got it. I didn’t understand it at the time, but she was right.”
“People” and “Don’t Rain on My Parade”
The film’s musical numbers became instant classics, largely because of Streisand’s definitive interpretations. “People” — Fanny’s declaration that she needs love — had been her signature song since Broadway, but on film, in close-up, it became something more intimate and devastating. Wyler filmed it simply: just Streisand’s face, filling the screen, singing directly to the audience. It’s one of the great musical moments in cinema.
“Don’t Rain on My Parade” — the Act One finale, Fanny’s defiant march to meet Nick — was filmed as a tour de force. Streisand insisted on doing it in long takes, walking through the elaborate sets, her voice building from conversational to triumphant. When she hits the final “don’t tell me not to fly,” it’s not just a song. It’s a manifesto.
The Oscar Tie
When the Academy Awards were held on April 14, 1969, Streisand was nominated for Best Actress. Her competition was formidable: Katharine Hepburn (The Lion in Winter), Vanessa Redgrave (Isadora), Joanne Woodward (Rachel, Rachel), and Patricia Neal (The Subject Was Roses).
In one of the most famous moments in Oscar history, the envelope was opened and presenter Ingrid Bergman announced: “It’s a tie!” — Streisand and Hepburn had received the exact same number of votes. It was only the second tie in Oscar history (and remains, as of 2026, one of just six).
Streisand, wearing a see-through Arnold Scaasi pantsuit that caused almost as much comment as the tie, bounded to the stage and delivered an acceptance speech that was pure Barbra: “Hello, gorgeous!” she said, quoting her own line from the film. It was confident, funny, and utterly unapologetic — just like her.
The Legacy
Funny Girl made Streisand a movie star, but more than that, it established the template for her career: total control, uncompromising standards, and the courage to be herself in an industry that wanted her to be someone else. She would go on to become the first woman to write, produce, direct, and star in a major American film (Yentl, 1983). She would win Grammys, Emmys, Tonys, and a second Oscar. She would become one of the best-selling recording artists of all time.
But it all started with Fanny Brice — the funny girl from Brooklyn who wasn’t pretty enough, playing the funny girl from the Lower East Side who wasn’t pretty enough. Art imitating life imitating art, in the most glorious way possible.
As Streisand herself put it: “Fanny Brice was told she was too Jewish, too Brooklyn, too much nose. I was told the same things. We both said, ‘Watch me.'” And the world did.
The Broadway-to-Film Transition: Why It Mattered
What made Streisand’s Funny Girl triumph so significant was how rare successful Broadway-to-film transitions were — especially for women. Hollywood had a habit of replacing Broadway stars with “bankable” film names: Julie Andrews lost My Fair Lady to Audrey Hepburn; Carol Channing lost Hello, Dolly! to Barbra Streisand herself (in a twist of irony, Streisand took the film role Channing had originated on stage).
Streisand broke this pattern by sheer force of will. Ray Stark’s insistence on casting her — backed by her Broadway triumph — proved that stage stardom could translate. But it was Streisand’s own campaign that sealed it. She understood, instinctively, that Fanny Brice belonged to her in a way no other actress could claim. She’d lived Fanny’s story: the Jewish girl from Brooklyn told she wasn’t pretty enough, who proved them all wrong through talent and determination.
The film’s success also established a template for Streisand’s film career: she would only take roles she could own completely. Hello, Dolly! (1969), On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (1970), The Way We Were (1973) — each was shaped around her persona. Some critics called it vanity. In retrospect, it was strategy. Streisand knew her brand and protected it fiercely.
The Cultural Impact: Redefining Beauty
Funny Girl’s deepest legacy may be its challenge to Hollywood beauty standards. In 1968, leading ladies were supposed to look like Audrey Hepburn or Elizabeth Taylor — delicate, symmetrical, conventionally beautiful. Streisand, with her prominent nose, strong features, and unapologetic Jewishness, didn’t fit the mold. She shattered it.
Young women — especially Jewish girls, especially girls told they weren’t pretty enough — saw themselves in Streisand. She made it okay to be different, to be smart and funny and talented rather than merely decorative. The film’s message (Fanny succeeds because of her talent, not despite her looks) became Streisand’s life philosophy.
“I never tried to be beautiful,” she said in 2019. “I tried to be interesting. I tried to be good. Beauty fades. Talent doesn’t.”
Fifty years later, Funny Girl remains a touchstone — not just as a great musical, but as a statement about who gets to be a star. Streisand’s Fanny Brice didn’t just win an Oscar. She opened a door that never closed.