Fred and Ginger in one of their best at mid career, almost a remake of "The Gay Divorcée". The music is by Irving Berlin and includes "Isn't This a Lovely Day" and "Cheek to Cheek." I can't imagine how Fred and Ginger managed to grind out these demanding films. The actors showed up at the studio at 4AM. And Fred Astaire was a perfectionist. He used up thirteen canes while filming one number, "Top Hat." He had his most notable argument with his partner over a feathery gown that Ginger Rogers had designed, since the feathers had a tendency to fly off during spins and stick to Astaire's dark evening clothes. And dancing itself, physical stamina aside, involves compelling self discipline. What looks so easy -- so IMPROVISED -- on the screen is actually worked out in minuscule detail beforehand, with each step, and each PART of each step, thoroughly memorized and rehearsed. Berlins' lyrics are above his usual standard: "I'm steppin out, my dear To breathe an atmosphere that simply reeks with class. And I trust that you'll excuse my dust when I step on the gas." ("Reeks with class", pretty good.)
Astaire made it even more difficult. Before him (and after him, for that matter) there had been Busby Berkeley, he of the overhead camera shot and the unfolding flower imagery. Astair had proclaimed "either the camera dances or I dance," so his numbers were shot with as few cuts as possible, and from eye level only. An exception occurs here during the climactic "Piccolino", although Astaire isn't in the shot, and it was the last time a Berkeleyesque shot was to appear in one of his films. These ensemble dances were organized by Astaire's colleague, Hermes Pan, a name that suggests its owner had just waltzed out of Andy Warhol's Factory but that, in fact, was the real name of an ordinary mid-Westerner who just happened to dance well.
I don't know how Irving Berlin could pump out songs as if they were hamburgers at a Sonic Drive-in either -- and winners, too, like "White Christmas" and dozens of others. The guy couldn't read music any better than you or I can. And he could play the piano in only one key, and only on the black keys. He had a custom piano built that mechanically transposed the melodies into other keys. It's like a chimpanzee picking up a paintbrush and producing The Last Supper, followed by Three Musicians, and so on, with scarcely a Big Eye painting among them.
You've got to see this thing if only for the art deco sets, blindingly white, huge, accented with black. The Greek keys and sinuous French curves follow one another sequaciously. The walls are white, the furniture is white, the telephones are white. Only the glossy floors and some of the wardrobe are black. Venice here looks like an expensive and sterile two-story set in an RKO studio. The dialog has more cutting witicisms than usual. Talking about a carriage horse, Astaire tells Rogers that his sire was Man O' War. "Who was his dame?", asks Rogers. "I don't know. He didn't give a (Rogers slams trap door)." And Rogers: "What is this power you have over horses?" Astaire: "Horse power."
And the supporting players like Eric Blore, Eric Rhodes, Edward Everett Horton, Lucille Ball, and Helen Broderick. They were all typecast, of course. The men tended to be effete, which served to emphasize Astaire's genuine, everyman quality. It must have been reassuring to see the same actors play variations on the same themes. Their descendants are the TV actors we've come to know in supporting parts -- the Ted Baxters and the Fred Mertzes and the -- well, the Fred Dalton Thompsons? Can I say that here? In the 1930s the audience had to wait for a year to see their favorite character actors. Now we get them once a week.
What gets me about this series is that the people we see are all so terribly rich. They all wear gowns and tuxedos and fly around from London to Venice to Paris and stay in the fanciest of hotels -- and this is 1935, with the world in the grip of a depression. It seems far too glib to claim the audience wanted an "escape" from the dreariness of their real worlds, too facile. Warner Brothers at the same time was producing films that "reflected" the dilemmas of the working-class audience. It would be interesting to know if "Top Hat" and its clones attracted a somewhat different audience from, say, "I Was a Fugitive From a Chain Gang." Too late to know.
Alas, though, the movie ends tragically, with everyone in Venice dying of cholera.
Just kidding.
Astaire made it even more difficult. Before him (and after him, for that matter) there had been Busby Berkeley, he of the overhead camera shot and the unfolding flower imagery. Astair had proclaimed "either the camera dances or I dance," so his numbers were shot with as few cuts as possible, and from eye level only. An exception occurs here during the climactic "Piccolino", although Astaire isn't in the shot, and it was the last time a Berkeleyesque shot was to appear in one of his films. These ensemble dances were organized by Astaire's colleague, Hermes Pan, a name that suggests its owner had just waltzed out of Andy Warhol's Factory but that, in fact, was the real name of an ordinary mid-Westerner who just happened to dance well.
I don't know how Irving Berlin could pump out songs as if they were hamburgers at a Sonic Drive-in either -- and winners, too, like "White Christmas" and dozens of others. The guy couldn't read music any better than you or I can. And he could play the piano in only one key, and only on the black keys. He had a custom piano built that mechanically transposed the melodies into other keys. It's like a chimpanzee picking up a paintbrush and producing The Last Supper, followed by Three Musicians, and so on, with scarcely a Big Eye painting among them.
You've got to see this thing if only for the art deco sets, blindingly white, huge, accented with black. The Greek keys and sinuous French curves follow one another sequaciously. The walls are white, the furniture is white, the telephones are white. Only the glossy floors and some of the wardrobe are black. Venice here looks like an expensive and sterile two-story set in an RKO studio. The dialog has more cutting witicisms than usual. Talking about a carriage horse, Astaire tells Rogers that his sire was Man O' War. "Who was his dame?", asks Rogers. "I don't know. He didn't give a (Rogers slams trap door)." And Rogers: "What is this power you have over horses?" Astaire: "Horse power."
And the supporting players like Eric Blore, Eric Rhodes, Edward Everett Horton, Lucille Ball, and Helen Broderick. They were all typecast, of course. The men tended to be effete, which served to emphasize Astaire's genuine, everyman quality. It must have been reassuring to see the same actors play variations on the same themes. Their descendants are the TV actors we've come to know in supporting parts -- the Ted Baxters and the Fred Mertzes and the -- well, the Fred Dalton Thompsons? Can I say that here? In the 1930s the audience had to wait for a year to see their favorite character actors. Now we get them once a week.
What gets me about this series is that the people we see are all so terribly rich. They all wear gowns and tuxedos and fly around from London to Venice to Paris and stay in the fanciest of hotels -- and this is 1935, with the world in the grip of a depression. It seems far too glib to claim the audience wanted an "escape" from the dreariness of their real worlds, too facile. Warner Brothers at the same time was producing films that "reflected" the dilemmas of the working-class audience. It would be interesting to know if "Top Hat" and its clones attracted a somewhat different audience from, say, "I Was a Fugitive From a Chain Gang." Too late to know.
Alas, though, the movie ends tragically, with everyone in Venice dying of cholera.
Just kidding.