It seems to have been powerful entertainment when it opened as a play in 1919, and why not? There's nothing offensive about it, there are a few amusing moments, and some tunes that have lingered in musical memory like pressed flowers. You'll recognize them when you hear them, not necessarily the names, but the melodies. "Irene" is constantly used as the theme. And "Alice Blue Gown" is even more endearing when you realize the eponymous color was named after Teddy Roosevelt's daughter Alice.
But, overall, what a bore. In 1940, the circumstances, the social conditions of the play, were only twenty-one years behind the audience. That's not very far. Twenty-one years ago, as I'm writing this, Timothy McVeigh blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City, there was an Ebola outbreak in Africa, Windows 95 and Javascript were introduced, and "Die Hard With a Vengeance" was playing in theaters. The good folks of 1940 could remember bustles as easily as we can remember Whitney Houston and Michael Jordan.
The audience could get with "Irene" but I had trouble. I haven't got the slightest interest in fashions, in class endogamy, or in haute couture. It was cute, what with the stereotypical Irish family, featuring Anna Neagle, and the aristocratic Proddies, featuring Ray Milland, but it had no substance, no comedy really except the most innocent sort -- cute, you know? -- and no bite, a kind of cinematic cotton candy. Somebody with a different sense of humor, Howard Hawks or Ernst Lubitsch, might have twisted it into shape.
However, I can understand its appeal for some people, in the middle of these turbulent times.
But, overall, what a bore. In 1940, the circumstances, the social conditions of the play, were only twenty-one years behind the audience. That's not very far. Twenty-one years ago, as I'm writing this, Timothy McVeigh blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City, there was an Ebola outbreak in Africa, Windows 95 and Javascript were introduced, and "Die Hard With a Vengeance" was playing in theaters. The good folks of 1940 could remember bustles as easily as we can remember Whitney Houston and Michael Jordan.
The audience could get with "Irene" but I had trouble. I haven't got the slightest interest in fashions, in class endogamy, or in haute couture. It was cute, what with the stereotypical Irish family, featuring Anna Neagle, and the aristocratic Proddies, featuring Ray Milland, but it had no substance, no comedy really except the most innocent sort -- cute, you know? -- and no bite, a kind of cinematic cotton candy. Somebody with a different sense of humor, Howard Hawks or Ernst Lubitsch, might have twisted it into shape.
However, I can understand its appeal for some people, in the middle of these turbulent times.