A fine black-and-white musical with a weak script, great dancing by Eleanor Powell and Fred Astaire, and songs (mostly) by Cole Porter.
It's the only film that Powell and Astaire made together. They really didn't get along together that well. Astaire had always been sensitive about having partners who were nearly as tall as he was, and Powell fit the template. She claimed to take baths full of soap bubbles every day hoping she'd "shrink or something." But one suspects that their lack of magic together had more to do with their different styles than their different altitudes.
Powell was trained in ballet but her specialty was tap. Astaire came out of ballroom dancing. And both were used to being the stars of their vehicles. Powell was a formidable partner and a spectacular soloist. She seemed made of some super-flexible flesh-covered metal. Her fans, kicking her leg high and swerving it before her in a semi-circle, seemed to reach for the stars. And she seemed to move herself through brute muscular force, whereas Astaire was narrow-shouldered and skinny and seemed to float. In "Broadway Melody of 1940," Astaire used only one lift, perhaps because he couldn't get Powell off the ground.
You can't help contrasting Eleanor Powell with Ginger Rogers. Powell was by far the better dancer, but not nearly as good a partner for Astaire. There was something winsome about Ginger Rogers, even when she was being sarcastic. She seemed tiny, blond, frangible, and excelled in her duets with Astaire. (In all their movies together she was only given one solo.) And she seemed radiant next to Powell, although Powell was a good-looking woman. I wouldn't have minded taking Eleanor Powell out to dinner at a fancy French restaurant. I'd have minded even less if she'd have taken me out, although, granted, she was intimidating enough, even without picking up the check. There's something else too. Rogers strikes me as the better actress. You can't really watch Powell with her big grin and theatrically modulated voice and believe that you're watching Eleanor Powell, the person, whereas it's possible to believe that Ginger Rogers just brought genuine, if latent, traits to her performances, that Rogers was the same way off screen as she was on screen.
The most impressive number is at the climax, "Begin the Beguine." It was a big hit at the time, thanks to Artie Shaw's 1938 recording, with its famous Jerry Gray arrangement. The lavish number is split into three or four parts, ending with a jazzed-up fast duet by Powell and Astaire, in which they seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves. It's done on a mirrored floor against a black backdrop of lighted stars. Black-and-white film has never looked more sophisticated or barbarously expensive.
The story behind the numbers is a rude lump of foul deformity. Forget it. But watch the numbers.
It's the only film that Powell and Astaire made together. They really didn't get along together that well. Astaire had always been sensitive about having partners who were nearly as tall as he was, and Powell fit the template. She claimed to take baths full of soap bubbles every day hoping she'd "shrink or something." But one suspects that their lack of magic together had more to do with their different styles than their different altitudes.
Powell was trained in ballet but her specialty was tap. Astaire came out of ballroom dancing. And both were used to being the stars of their vehicles. Powell was a formidable partner and a spectacular soloist. She seemed made of some super-flexible flesh-covered metal. Her fans, kicking her leg high and swerving it before her in a semi-circle, seemed to reach for the stars. And she seemed to move herself through brute muscular force, whereas Astaire was narrow-shouldered and skinny and seemed to float. In "Broadway Melody of 1940," Astaire used only one lift, perhaps because he couldn't get Powell off the ground.
You can't help contrasting Eleanor Powell with Ginger Rogers. Powell was by far the better dancer, but not nearly as good a partner for Astaire. There was something winsome about Ginger Rogers, even when she was being sarcastic. She seemed tiny, blond, frangible, and excelled in her duets with Astaire. (In all their movies together she was only given one solo.) And she seemed radiant next to Powell, although Powell was a good-looking woman. I wouldn't have minded taking Eleanor Powell out to dinner at a fancy French restaurant. I'd have minded even less if she'd have taken me out, although, granted, she was intimidating enough, even without picking up the check. There's something else too. Rogers strikes me as the better actress. You can't really watch Powell with her big grin and theatrically modulated voice and believe that you're watching Eleanor Powell, the person, whereas it's possible to believe that Ginger Rogers just brought genuine, if latent, traits to her performances, that Rogers was the same way off screen as she was on screen.
The most impressive number is at the climax, "Begin the Beguine." It was a big hit at the time, thanks to Artie Shaw's 1938 recording, with its famous Jerry Gray arrangement. The lavish number is split into three or four parts, ending with a jazzed-up fast duet by Powell and Astaire, in which they seem to be genuinely enjoying themselves. It's done on a mirrored floor against a black backdrop of lighted stars. Black-and-white film has never looked more sophisticated or barbarously expensive.
The story behind the numbers is a rude lump of foul deformity. Forget it. But watch the numbers.