Barnaby, You Don't Know Anything About Women: Hello, Dolly! (1969)

I have watched a lot of musicals this month and still have a few more to look into, but I am rather certain that Hello, Dolly! will prove to be the example of all of the possible elements of a good musical layered into one brilliant epic number, all helmed by the poised and focused delivery of entertainer extraordinaire Barbra Streisand.  This, however, is only one of the contributing factors to this film as it possesses comedy, drama and enough toe-tapping musical numbers to make even the most anti-musical of viewers want to get out of their seat and dance around, hell I even found myself swaying to the music occasionally.  If any of these elements cannot manage to get the cold hearted cinephile to leap with joy, the inclusion of a singing Walter Matthau is certainly the swelling and inspiring factor of cinematic perfection.  While I might come away from this month with an understanding of Busby Berkeley still being the premier director of movie musicals, followed in a very close second by the eccentric works of Bob Fosse, then I would consider Hello, Dolly!, directed by noted performer Gene Kelly who has made multiple appearances this month on the blog, the actor turned director of the genre.  While wholly different films in theme, tone and appearance, one could suggest that Kelly's transition from actor to director that occurs here in Hello, Dolly! takes on a level of intensity tantamount to that of Charles Laughton going from actor to director of The Night of the Hunter, although the latter does have the notable one and done nature that gives it a mythic sense of scale.  Regardless, Hello, Dolly! is nothing short of a musical at its most ambitious and realized, moving in a sweeping manner through its lengthy runtime, but still leaving a sense of wonderment throughout and a wish that the tim could hold on for just a bit longer, because between the comedic timing of the various actors, a few music interludes that include at least one delightful cameo by Louis Armstrong and what has to be the highlight of Streisand's career, Hello, Dolly! from its opening frames melts into exuberant existence for all to enjoy.

Set in 1890's New York, Hello, Dolly! focuses on a group of upper middle class individuals navigating the spaces of socialite dinners and engagements of marriage and prosperity, most notably with the endeavors of one Horace Vandergelder (Walter Matthau) a tailor and textile aficionado who has long overlooked the necessity of settling down and getting married, admitting the need for a "dainty" woman in his life for composures sake.  While he has his eye on a milliner named Irene Molloy (Marianne McAndrew) it is a woman from his past named Dolly Levi (Barbra Streisand) who seems more interested in accruing his affections after the passing of her late husband.  Using her charm and guile, Dolly convinces Horace to take his time in approaching Irene for her hand, while she simultaneously introduces Irene and her coworker Minnie Fay (E.J. Peaker) to Horace's young apprentices Barnaby Tucker (Danny Lockin) and Cornelius Hackl (Michael Crawford) hoping that their wide-eyed charm will prove just the trick in getting the group to move their affections away from Horace onto their own goals, ones that allow for Dolly to plant the seed of desire in the stoic, but often misguided Horace.  Of course, the narrative plays this entire endeavor out in grand form, involving a variety of parades and dinners with which Dolly must come to odds with her lavish past, one that includes the adoration of Rudolph Reisenweber (David Hurst) and a vast array of other well-to-do individuals, all evidence when she arrives to much spectacle at the man's home and is in an honored guest during dinner.  Furthermore, Barnaby and Cornelius are not exactly forthright in their affections and need prodding and poking to become intimate with Irene and Minnie, eventually needing the women to make the advances, much in the same vein as Dolly is proving to be the instigator in her impending relationship with Horace.  While Horace flails to keep his dignity in tact as it becomes apparent his ways are becoming antiquated, fully evidenced by his nephew Ambrose Kemper (Tommy Tune) outright refusing to listen to his advice and the opening of a new tailor shop by his former employees, he has no choice but to concede to marrying Dolly.  The brilliance being that Dolly never once suggested the reality, instead hinting at it subliminally or allowing for misdirection to work in a layered form.

This movie is grand in scope and no musical number is short or half realized.  Indeed the film has a rather lengthy ten minute opening song and dance bit before viewers are even given a title card.  This is in line with the genre, but even in this context the breadth and length of such performances are exceptionally long.  While it is arguably the case for every musical, I would suggest that the length of time devoted to performance within Hello, Dolly! is intended to extend the metaphor of performing social responsibilities, here referring to ones involving dating and advancing an agenda of marriage.  Take for example, the initial performance of "I Need A Dainty Woman" by Walter Matthau's Horace. The stoic man whose refusal to speak at any length in the non-singing portions of the narrative, is juxtaposed with his marching and tonal shifting--albeit comedically--while singing this song.  Pairing this with a rather extensive use of the tropes of musical genre, allow for the entire song to speak length to what Horace knows he must do socially to accrue such a woman, yet his reluctance to do so is reflected by his musical numbers existing in the space of marching with other, affirming his own retreating back into masculine singularity as an ideal.  It is not until the closing moments when the song is reappropriated to refer to his newly formed relationship with Dolly that it is moved into a space of a large outdoor dancehall.  The performance is newly situated.  Even other songs like the title song, take on this performative layered level as Dolly must navigate a social space where she is both adored and must learn to navigate her adoration with care and poise.  However, it is wholly the fifteen plus minute dinner service seen that uses narrative performance through the musical to its most extensive and realized.  Cleverly juxtaposed with the ideals of social etiquette, Horace's own suspicions about Dolly's motivations and the attempts by Barnaby and Cornelius to escape the judgement of lower class status, the spectacle of flipping and leaping waiters and demanding patrons is evidence of a director whose own work in front of the camera is of decided note to his ability to impose grand visions onto film.

Key Scene:  Did I mention flipping waiters and flying chicken dinners yet?

This movie is worth your time and is certainly easily accessible via Netflix and other sources.

Getting Involved Is So, So Involving: On The Town (1949)

I have already watched High Society as part of this month of musical, wherein a variety of stars coalesced together to make an enjoyable, but somewhat less than realized musical.  In contrast, is On the Town, a film that included a considerable amount of people working both in front of and behind the camera who were still establishing themselves in the entertainment business.  This establishment, however, does not equate to underwhelming delivery on any of their parts, indeed, Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra put on career defining work, all the the swell of Leonard Bernstein compositions.  This alone would make for a noted and wholly engaging piece of film, but add Stanley Donen to the mix and it becomes a thing of sheer beauty.  The version of this film that I was able to catch up with was a digitized version of the VHS copy, which meant a bit of blurriness and weird fading in and out throughout, but like my copy of Pather Panchali which suffers from the same issues, this still worked beautifully.  The swagger that is seemingly inherent within Frank Sinatra's music pushes some of the numbers to new heights and an extended ballet sequence affords Gene Kelly a chance to shine, moving madly through the space as though it were foolish to even confine his dynamism.  It would be one thing to just sing the praises of the visual elements of the film, which are extensive and noted, but it also manages to also be an incredibly funny film, one that plays into the absurdity of heteronormative ideals in the musical, while also knowingly ascribing to them to avoid any confusion.  It is perfectly post-World War II in its composition using the narrative of a few Navy guys on leave to push for a stranger in a strange place narrative that also refers back to the down on their luck girl in the big city that made for a narrative in nearly every Busby Berkeley musical of a decade earlier.  I could sit here and pick apart every single thing that works about On the Town, but it would ruin some of the surprise, or worse would contradict the perfect simplicity of the film, using basic cinematic language to lovingly move through a stylized and sensational version of New York City.

On the Town works in a cyclical narrative focusing on the arrival of a group of Navy men on leave.  The Navy guys include the somewhat brutish but well-meaning Ozzie (Jules Munshin), the curly haired and dashing Chip (Frank Sinatra) who wants nothing more than to explore the city his father has spoken so fondly about.  Finally, there is Gabey (Gene Kelley) the everyman sailor who is simply along for the ride.  When it is Gabey who encounters Ivy Smith (Vera-Ellen) a local model and ballerina who Gabey assumes to be famous as a result of her being on the billboards of Subway trains.  Gabey is smitten with Ivy, but she flees the scene to return to her rather desolate life as a student/exploited worker for the maniacal Madame Dilyovska (Florence Bates).  Recruiting his pals, Gabey, Chip and Ozzie take it upon themselves to search all of New York City for the model.  Along the way the each member meets their romantic parter, Ozzie coming to be a point of desire and fascination for museum curator Claire Huddesen (Ann Miller) who compares him to a primitive male on display in the museum.  While, Ozzie is initially confused by such an assertion, he also enjoys the advances of the attractive Claire.  Chip meets up with the local cab driver Brunhilde "Hildy" Esterhazy (Betty Garrett) whose wild-mouth and assertive nature lead him to enjoy her company in a roundabout way, only spurred further by her near textbook memory of all the spaces in New York, thus making his tourism more well-executed and updated.  Yet, Gabey is still struggling to find Ivy a quest that is greatly shortened by a happenstance encounter.  Ivy explains that she is also quite attracted to Gabey, but her point of employment proves rather problematic since it involves burlesque dancing for the Madame Dilyovska who uses the cost of her ballet lessons over the young Ivy.  Agreeing to meet on the top of the Empire State Building things become complicated when Ivy must return to her work, the determined Gabey seeks her out, nonetheless, all the while the group must run around the city police force that have taken a stand against their various accidents and inducing of trouble.  The groups concerted effort does allow for the two to unite, in the process discovering that they might have been far closer together than they ever imagined.

This film, as I noted borrows from the Busby Berkeley narrative of woman in the big city, who is struggling in her place of employment, while also hoping that they can snag a man for their point of escape.  Furthermore, given that it involves a group of Navy men navigating New York City it also takes on a layer of the homosocial bond, their own engagement with the girls becoming a point of this shared desire.  What becomes fascinating though is that both group are played at odds to one another in a very heteronormative manner, the girls looking at the men as a bit ruff and tumble, particularly since they are Navy men, although in non-diegetic sense both Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly exert more feminine identities at this point in their careers.  In contrast the men see the woman as things "to be saved" although it is rather clear that both Hildy and Claire possess jobs that are financially independent and of which they are quite proud.  Indeed, Hildy even makes a note of her distinct difference to the other male cabbies in New York.  It is a film that carefully crafts the two gendered and genre spaces together, at times making a clear distinction between the two.  There is a particular dance and musical number with the men praising the life of the Navy that allows them to constantly philander about never needing to settle down.  In yet another knowing moment the choreography has the women look at the camera asserting their own knowledge of this reality, while also seeming to suggest that they can end these wily ways by a mere flashing of their eyes.  The narrative pushes to have these unions be somewhat unconventional, pairing the oafish Ozzie with the intellectual Claire and the travelled Hildy with the somewhat sheltered Chip.  It would seem like it is a suggestion that all women are capable of finding a man, without expecting them to be a fabrication of themselves, again terribly heteronormative, but understandably so for the era.  I would seem this is the case, but it would negate the unfortunate experiences of Lucy Schmeeler (Alice Pearce) a comedic point of contrast to the "beauty" of the other women.  None of the men even acknowledge her as a sexually attractive individual.  Even though Gabey asserts that she will eventually find her partner, his conviction seems particularly uninspired.

Key Scene:  Frank Sinatra singing "You're Awful" is just about the most delightful song I have heard in quite awhile.

The DVD for this is cheap enough to suggest buying, but renting might not be a bad approach as it is admittedly not the lavish musical some might initially apply to a Stanley Donen work.

I Got, Rhythm!: An American In Paris (1951)

Often times when I am encountering films it proves to be a singular scene of misguidance and ill-conceived execution that cause me to dismiss a work entirely.  This is often frustrating as it proves to come in the closing moments of a film and make everything that has occurred previously moot and irrelevant.  My most notable case of this problem occurs in Ben Affleck's The Town, an exceptionally well made film up to the point of its awful ending.  In contrast there are the occasions when the execution of a film is less than stellar, particularly in comparison to the actors and directors involved leading to a certain degree of tuning out on the part of the viewer, who is hoping for equal excitement as to their other works.  All but turned off to the film, the closing segments of the film take such a dramatic switch as to become wholly engaging and captivating in a way that only occurs with the most focused and concerted efforts.  An American In Paris absolutely falls within the latter, proving to be a work that is lesser than Vincente Minnelli's Meet Me In St. Louis, as well as not possessing the captive qualities from Gene Kelly that make Singin' In The Rain a masterpiece in cinema.  Indeed, I was quite upset with An American In Paris, not because it was bad by any stretch of the imagination, but because it had moments that pulled from the previously mentioned films, as well as attaining a few moments of choreography on par with The Red Shoes and never seemed to push to coalesce them together.  I was upset, that is, until they did move together rather brilliantly in the final section of the film an extended and thrilling dance number whose sense of scope necessitates not only an enormous soundstage, but also a movement through filmic temporal space with clever cuts and edits that make the magic of Paris come to live both in a historical understanding of the city, as well as a loving eye of the filmmaker.  In terms of Americans abroad in film, this work is quite prolific, cowering only to the likes of The Third Man and a few other significant films.  It is no Singin' In The Rain, but, to be fair, most films pale in comparison anyway.

An American In Paris centers on three artists in Paris, the first is the World War II veteran Jerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly) who has taken to the tenement lifestyle as he struggles to make it as a painter of various Parisian landmarks.   Jerry's friends include the concert pianist Adam Cook (Oscar Levant) who has been living in the space of Paris on various artist grants for nearly half a decade, only managing to stay financially above water with the help of his friend and night club singer Henri Baurel (Georges Guétary).  After hearing from Henri about an attractive young woman, Jerry takes to the streets to attempt to sell his work, scoffing at the various American college girls abroad and their misguided attempts to overanalyze the various artwork on display, including his own.  Yet, when Jerry is approached by a wealthy woman named Milo Roberts (Nina Foch) who buys his work on the spot he becomes somewhat suspicious of her intentions.  This hesitation is verified later, when Milo admits to wanting to use the guise of helping Jerry as an artist to attain his affection, also admitting to finding him incredibly attractive.  Jerry is despondent, thinking this is far from where he wanted to be as an established artist and travels to an art show at a Parisian nightclub to sulk.  It is at this point that Jerry notices the beguiling Lise Bouvier (Leslie Caron) who he takes an instant liking to, finding her absolutely stunning and attempts to pull her away from her various gentlemen.  While Lise is initially confused and a bit taken aback, she eventually falls to Jerry's charm and agrees to go on a date with him.  Jerry is given a gallery open by the still infatuated Milo, although upon her realization that he has taken a new romantic interest in Lise, she begins to recoil, only furthered by the insistence on the part of Jerry that he be afforded an opportunity to establish himself as an artist on his own.  Jerry's world is made all the more frustrating when it is revealed that he is pursuing the very same girl that Henri had spoken of at the beginning of the film.  After a series of seemingly misguided daydreams, Jerry and Lise are able to reunite, all to the perfect swell of a Gershwin composition.

I rarely approach things from a formalist standpoint, because it is a slippery slope I do not care to become heavily involved with.  Indeed, understanding how things are executed within films while incredibly important, does tend to take the magic out of the enjoyment, as is the case for Days of Heaven a film which possesses an absolutely captivating scene that has been deconstructed multiple times, leading me to hesitate actually viewing the film as I know it will invariably lack in the magic that occurs.  In the same vein, I actively avoid researching the special effects execution at play in 2001: A Space Odyssey because to do so would almost certainly assure that it loses some of its inconceivable execution, or perhaps not, because that film still manages to exist in an impossible film world regardless.  As such, I want to merely touch on some of the elements that make that final scene in An American in Paris so exception.  Primarily, it occurs as a result of the mixture between the fabricated and the real, there is a seen where Kelly and Caron flutter from one set to another, the space starting as clearly impressionist sets, to somewhat more realist sets and ultimately resting in the space of a stage where actual dancers and actors occupy the table.  The actors remain frozen though as to allow for a remaining temporal space that seems surreal, but still exists within a rather simply executed cinematic trick.  This holds true for the use of space during this sixteen minute ballet sequence, wherein it seems to extend and evolve continually never resting on a single fixed area.  Much of this is afforded through a crane that is panning and moving without cutting, therefore, moving sets and shifting dancers can be done in a small space, but still without being noticed in the diegetic space.  Of course, this is still a feat of precision and some editing does allow it to work smoothly.  Even then, there are still inconceivable scenes of cinematic magic, the most notable one being the closing of the sequence when Gene Kelly moves from being a superimposed image over a backdrop to fading into frame while the background dissolves.  It is absolutely stunning.

Key Scene:  Refer to the paragraph above.

Bluray should be an obvious choice in this regard.

I Do Hope You're Going To Favor Us With Something Special Tonight: Singin' In The Rain (1952)

I mentioned this when I reviewed King Kong a few weeks back and want to take a moment to mention this again.  There are a handful of movies that I assumed I knew everything about before viewing and expected to find little enjoyment when watching Singin' In The Rain.  Was I ever wrong.  Stanley Donen, the genius behind Charade, brings forth something that is not just fantastic, but monumentally brilliant.  I can definitively say that I was, and still am, more enamored with this musical than anything made before or after.  It is the perfect combination of wit, musicianship and narrative that keeps the viewer occupied, and for being a musical made in the early fifties, it is pretty well-acted.  Gene Kelly is a hilarious actor and I am shamed to say that this is my first experience with the late actor.  If none of these elements were not enough, the film is magnificently shot in technicolor and edited to make the hectic and frantic narrative seem illustriously extravagant, while maintaining a very composed structure.  Somehow, Singin' In The Rain manages to adhere to all the traditions of a Hollywood Musical while simultaneously being one of the most avant-garde musicals ever made, excluding Guy Maddin's The Saddest Music In The World of course.

Singin' In The Rain, for those unfamiliar with its plot, is set up as a memory play of sorts, focusing on Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly) a well-respected and much-loved silent film actor who is finding difficulties transitioning to a life in talking films.  Furthermore, his leading lady, and unwilling companion, due mostly to media speculation, Lina Lamont (Jean Hagen) is having greater difficulties transitioning given her grating voice and inability to adapt to new technologies.  Luckily for Don, his long time friend Cosmo Brown (Donald O'Connor) comes up with the idea to change their newest picture into a musical, allowing for Don to exercise his performance skills which granted him his breakthrough in Hollywood.  This is good news for everyone except, Lina whose singing and dancing are even worse than her acting.  Don, however, has recently discovered a young dancer named Kathy (Debbie Reynolds) who he thinks is perfect for the part and sees this role as a chance to return his own luck in Hollywood, as well as a chance to win Kathy's affection.  A problem arises when Lina explains to the producer that her contract allows her near omnipotence over the film despite her failure to perform up to expectations.  Realizing her control Lina demands that Kathy sing her vocals and voice over her acting scenes while receiving no credit for her actions.  Reluctant to do so, but realizing that she has no alternative, Kathy succumbs to the demands and rescinds to her leading role in favor of keeping the love and affection of Don.  The film, titled The Dancing Cavelier, is a huge success and both Don and Lina are asked to give encore performances.  In a moment of hubris, Lina blows her guise and it is revealed that not only has she been lip-synching, but that her voice is unbearable to the audience as well.  Don quickly rushes on stage and reveals Kathy to be the real star of the film to which the audience celebrates appropriately.  The film ends on a joyous note for everyone involved, excluding Lina of course who has learned a very valuable lesson about the ever-fading nature of beauty.

The real magic of Singin' In The Rain comes not in its story or musical numbers, but instead in its editing and post-filming elements.  Sure, it is well-acted and beautifully shot, but the composition of images and use of sound make this film something special.  I would imagine that audiences viewing this film in theaters had the same sort of awe-inspiring experiences as those who viewed The Jazz Singer, a film that is mentioned constantly within Singin' In The Rain, perhaps to let viewers know that Donen was creating an homage of sorts.  It was something new and amazing that lacked explanation, Singin' In The Rain is the truest example of magical cinema.  The perfect hybridity of editing with story telling occurs during the scene when Lina and Don are attempting to film, the then titled The Dueling Cavelier and find the burdens of recording sound unbearable.  The film track often drops out during their speeches to reflect the microphone being out of range and during one scene Lina moves back and forth constantly and the sound wavers with her movements, a moment that was undoubtedly very difficult to recreate in the sound studio.  Having a bit of experience with contemporary sound editing I can confess that this is still a difficult effect to recreate.  In fact, the only film I can recall that even deals with sound in a similar manner is Blow Out.  Furthermore, the entire pace of the scene is frantic, between the constant jump cuts and re-creating of the same scene it is hard to fathom how many takes this scene required.  Despite this, the scene seems flawless and is perhaps one of the most enjoyable moments of the film.  Such dedication to perfection reflects the work of Stanley Donen and he is slowly becoming one of my favorite directors despite having made mostly musicals. 

I am baffled as to why there is no Blu-Ray for this piece of art that is a film.  However, I imagine that they may do something in the upcoming year to celebrate the film's sixtieth anniversary.  I would suggest holding off until that release, but if not, purchase a copy, because it is a landmark film that I wished I had seen much earlier in my life.