This is the film where Tondalayo of "White Cargo" meets Millie, the feisty singing heroine from "Seven Brides For Seven Brothers", and the film print should have been drowned upon release. It is the opportunity for musical star Jane Powell to play against type, and she chews the scenery to the point of it becoming a bare sound stage. The script indicates that Powell is the adopted daughter of the still pretty but aging screen star (Hedy Lamar), and on the set of her latest film, Lamar falls in love with an extra (George Nader) who saves her from falling equipment. Unaware of her personal situation, Nader runs into the drunken Powell (very sloppy drunk!) and they become close as well. Toss in campy Jan Sterling as a vicious aging child star (the first to be chased around a desk) and you've got the ingredient for a piece of trash that the incinerator would gladly burn to ash.
A sloppy mess of a script, this is not only badly written and horribly acted, but embarrassing for all involved. It's one of those things that might have worked for Lana Turner and Sandra Dee, but minus that Ross Hunter touch, just looks cheap and vulgar. Poor Jane Powell was ill advised to take such a drastically different part and besmirches her image instantly. I have the feeling that this was an instant bomb and hardly anybody witnessed her fall off the musical bandwagon as well as off of a bar-stool. The narrative is all choppy, the mood more melodramatic than a Saturday afternoon serial and the representation of Hollywood completely phony. Amusing moments with Mabel Albertson as an over zealous fan and James Gleason as a philosophy spouting bartender give only a smidgen of quality. To have the film open and close with the buildup to everything that happens in between turns this into a perplexing mess that ultimately makes the whole thing pointless.
A sloppy mess of a script, this is not only badly written and horribly acted, but embarrassing for all involved. It's one of those things that might have worked for Lana Turner and Sandra Dee, but minus that Ross Hunter touch, just looks cheap and vulgar. Poor Jane Powell was ill advised to take such a drastically different part and besmirches her image instantly. I have the feeling that this was an instant bomb and hardly anybody witnessed her fall off the musical bandwagon as well as off of a bar-stool. The narrative is all choppy, the mood more melodramatic than a Saturday afternoon serial and the representation of Hollywood completely phony. Amusing moments with Mabel Albertson as an over zealous fan and James Gleason as a philosophy spouting bartender give only a smidgen of quality. To have the film open and close with the buildup to everything that happens in between turns this into a perplexing mess that ultimately makes the whole thing pointless.