ASTAIRE and ROGERS: THE ULTIMATE COLLECTION (RKO/MGM, 1932 - 49) Warner Home Video
At the 1967
Academy Awards, Fred Astaire made the impromptu decision to depart from his
scripted entry, calling for him to appear from stage left and take the hand of
co-presenter, Ginger Rogers, entering from stage right, leading her to the
podium. Instead, Astaire gave the audience and his long-time screen partner one
last opportunity to experience the timeless appeal of their long-enduring
partnership; locking a visibly startled, but equally as elated Rogers in an embrace,
pirouette and brief pas deux to the tune ‘I
Won’t Dance’. In good ole-fashion terms, Astaire’s impetuosity and the
subsequent whirl of feet in perfect time that followed it literally stopped the
show. Despite lingering rumors to the contrary, most begun by RKO’s publicity
department to drum up curiosity with fans back in the late 1930’s, the
affection between Astaire and Rogers had always been genuine; tempered, perhaps
after Astaire married wealthy socialite, Phyllis Potter, whose jealousy for
Rogers could not be contained. But by 1967, all this had been forgotten.
Phyllis had died in 1954. Even before this, the screen’s most glorious dance
team had separated to pursue independent ventures; Rogers – as a ‘serious’
actress, and Astaire, to trip the light fantastic with a myriad of accomplished
dancers elsewhere, though arguably, never to as unique an effect.
Yet, never were
they better than when they appeared as ‘a team’ – a tribute both Astaire and
Rogers would have likely abhorred. Indeed, after Astaire’s sister, Adele (his
first partner on the stage) elected for early retirement to start a family, the
void left behind caused Astaire to question his own validity as a solo
performer; an anxiety of self-doubt compounded after some misguided RKO talent
scout famously documented Astaire’s early screen test thus: “Can’t act. Can’t sing. Balding. Can dance a
little!” Adele and Fred had been the toast of Broadway and London
throughout the 1920’s. Indeed, Fred was already a seasoned performer by the
time of his first casual ‘cute meet’
with Rogers in New York; Rogers, then – a chorine on the cusp of breaking into
the big time in Broadway’s Girl Crazy,
thanks to the machinations of her stage mom, Lela. If Astaire and Rogers were seen about town
briefly thereafter (and…they were), their casual flirtations did not lead them into
any great romance. And it was not until Fred was free from Adele (who left the biz
to marry an English lord), that he and Ginger would once more reconnect in far
closer proximity in Hollywood. By then, Ginger was the more established talent,
having appeared in a handful of undistinguished movies. Then, in 1932, Rogers
began dating producer, Mervyn LeRoy. She also made her first notable splash as
a saucy hoofer in 42nd Street
(1932), her razor-backed line, “It must
have been hard on your mother not to have any children” eliciting riotous
laughter from the audience. She followed this up with an even flashier moment
in Gold Diggers of 1933, warbling
the ironic Depression-era anthem, ‘We’re
in the Money’ forwards and backwards with fresh-faced sex appeal.
Astaire’s ascension
to Hollywood royalty was neither as swift nor as assured. After signing a
contract with RKO, he remained conspicuously out of the running; his first
screen appearance opposite Joan Crawford, on loan out to MGM for a brief
musical interlude in Dancing Lady
(1933). Astaire was to rather ruthlessly judge this debut with skin-crawling
disgust adding, “I just looked like a
knife out there!” As fate would have
it, Fred would not have much to squawk about from then on. Famously, it was
written then that Rogers did everything Astaire did, only backwards and in
heels. But Katharine Hepburn’s astute remark rings truer still, “Fred gives Ginger class and she gives him
sex.” Whatever the truth, the passion and grace Astaire and Rogers exuded
on screen undeniably revolutionized the movie musical at a time when America
and the world at large were struggling for hope, meaning and escapism. Their
movies remain a tonic to the weary today and reveal an impossibly diverting paradise
a la art director, Van Nest Polglase’s gleamingly white art deco sets. And with
Astaire’s perfectionism, an assist from choreographer, Hermes Pan and, of
course, Rogers’ uncanny ability to pick up a step with almost instant finesse, Fred
Astaire and Ginger Rogers were destined to enter the history books as ‘one for
the ages’. There was absolutely nothing they could not do together.
And all of this
lovable nonsense began inauspiciously with Astaire and Rogers near cameo
appearance in RKO’s big-budgeted super musical, Flying Down to Rio (1933); conceived under the guidance of Production
Chief, Marion C. Cooper (who had neither the ambition for movie musicals nor
dancing, but harbored a distinct yen for both South America and flying – hence,
the setting and grand aerial maneuvers to conclude this show). The stars,
however, were not Fred and Ginger, but contract players Gene Raymond and
Dolores Del Rio. Raymond is Roger Bond: an aviator and band leader of The
Yankee Clippers. So far, Bond’s penchant for the ladies has managed to get the
band broomed from every hot spot they have ever played in America. So, Bond’s
latest conquest is Brazilian flame, Belinha de Rezende (Del Rio) who is already
engaged to another.
Things really
begin to heat up at the Hotel Atlantico after Roger and Belinha rekindle their
romance under the radar of her intended. Justly famous – and forever lampooned
- for its flying circus finale featuring a troop of scantily clad ladies
improbably tap dancing on the wings of an airborne biplane, Flying Down to Rio’s grace note is ‘The Carioca’; an elaborate dance routine
performed not so much ‘cheek to cheek’
as forehead to forehead by Astaire and Rogers – rechristened as minor comic
relief, Fred Ayres and Honey Hale. Astaire remained circumspect about his
teaming with Rogers. Indeed, throughout the shoot, he was nothing if not
professional, almost to the point of becoming slightly aloof; perhaps, to
assuage his wife’s jealousies. It mattered not what was chaste behind closed
doors as once Astaire and Rogers took to the dance floor sparks of their
inimitable on-screen chemistry were clearly on display. As RKO was in dire straits
just prior to the picture’s release, the whopping success of Flying Down to Rio did much to lighten
the mood on the back lot; a spirit dampened when Marion Cooper suffered a
near-fatal heart attack and was forced to step down as head of the studio. His
replacement, Pandro S. Berman proved part cagey showman/part savvy businessman.
But Astaire and Rogers’ popularity was not lost on Berman, who quickly elected
to create a co-starring vehicle built around them.
The result, Mark
Sandrich’s The Gay Divorcee (1934);
a project to incur displeasure from the Hollywood censors even before a single
strip of celluloid had been exposed. Presumably, as marital discourse could
hardly be considered ‘gay’, the
original Broadway title ‘The Gay Divorce’
was altered to reflect that only the person getting
the divorce was allowed to exercise such a privilege. Today, RKO’s marketing
campaign for the picture – “The whole
country’s gone gay” – has taken on an unintended picaresque quality. And
indeed, in transposing the plot from stage to screen, Berman and Sandrich made
the executive decision – either for better or worse – to jettison the entire
Cole Porter/Broadway score, save one tune, in favor of an interpolated soundtrack
from Herb Magidson, Con Conrad, Mack Gordon and Henry Revel. Sandwiched between
the ebullient ‘Needle in a Haystack’
and gargantuan-staged ‘Continental’
was Porter’s ‘Night and Day’ –
something of a signpost for subsequent Astaire/Rogers movies to emulate; a
number where Astaire and Rogers’ alter egos are allowed to explore the home
fires of a mutual passion through the art and expression of the dance.
In this comedy
of errors, Mimi Glossop (Rogers) is the divorcee – or rather, would like to be.
Her Aunt Hortense (Alice Brady) hires ‘a professional’ (code for ‘gigolo’) to
seduce her, thereby giving Mimi’s husband grounds for a divorce. But the plot
goes awry when American dancer, Guy Holden (Astaire) meets Mimi while visiting
Brightbourne. She thinks he is playing the part of her paid seducer while he is
actually falling in love with her. While nothing could match the elegant ‘Night and Day’ (sublimely danced by
Astaire and Rogers inside an abandoned canopied ballroom by moonlight), the mind-boggling
‘Continental’ remains a close second
for audiences: at twenty-two minutes, by far one of the most elaborate
production numbers ever conceived for the screen, with sixty dancers forming
Busby Berkeley-esque geometric patterns in the fancifully lit and towering
courtyard of an impossibly grand hotel. The Continental set a new standard for
the rest of the Astaire/Rogers movies yet to follow it – fleshing out paper
thin plots with confounding and beautiful set pieces.
Neither Astaire
nor Rogers had wanted to make The Gay
Divorcee; each, fearing the move would indenture them to a lifetime of
association. It did. To sweeten the deal, Pandro Berman promised Astaire 10%
profit sharing from the grosses. For Ginger, Berman assured the enterprising
actress opportunities to make pictures apart from Astaire; thereby allowing her
to pursue dreams as a serious actress. In the meantime, no one could argue with
the box office returns. The Gay Divorcee
literally pulled RKO from the brink of bankruptcy. With the balance sheet back
in the black, Berman quickly acquired another hit Broadway show – Jerome Kern’s
Roberta (1935) for Astaire and
Rogers to co-star. Actually, Roberta
is a throwback of sorts; Fred and Ginger taking a backseat to Irene Dunne and
Randolph Scott, cast in the leads. Nevertheless, under William A. Seiter’s
direction Roberta proved an
inspiration with enough examples of Astaire and Rogers doing what they did best
to keep the paying public happy. The plot concerns beefy football player, John
Kent (Scott) who tags along with band leader/pal, Huckleberry Haines (Astaire)
and his Wabash Indianans. The troop arrives in Paris where John visits his Aunt
Roberta (Helen Westley), the owner of a posh dress maker’s shop effectively run
by her assistant, Stephanie (Dunne).
In Paris, the
boys also run into former singer ‘Lizzie’ now masquerading as Comtesse
Scharwenka (Rogers) who – no kidding - gets the Wabash Indianans a gig. Tragically,
Aunt Roberta dies. John inherits the business and thereafter plans to liquidate
it to keep up his playboy lifestyle. But love predictably intervenes and the
business is saved. Despite offering Astaire and Rogers one grand moment to
shine – their elegant pas deux to Kern’s haunting ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’, in retrospect Roberta remains a sublime, yet slightly off kilter entertainment.
Behind the scenes, Astaire began to question the influence Rogers mother, Lela
was having on her daughter’s career. The relationship between mother and
daughter had always been hermetically sealed; the pair perfecting a sort of
fractured pig Latin baby talk to get around others listening in on their
conversations. To dilute Lela’s authority, Berman agreed to a truce; hiring
Lela to establish an on-sight ‘school’ where she might educate the studio’s
roster of starlets in the subtle art of acting.
Keeping Lela busy was only half the battle. As Berman prepared for
1935’s Top Hat, he was met with
fresh concerns from Astaire that the formula behind their pictures was already
getting stale.
In retrospect,
Astaire showed remarkable foresight here. Beginning with The Gay Divorcee, the Astaire/Rogers’ pictures fell into a sort of
predictable stock company with reoccurring faces in grand support. These
included Edward Everett Horton, Eric Blore, Erik Rhodes and Alice Brady. At the
time of Top Hat, these beloved old
hams were very much ensconced as part of the Astaire/Rogers ‘stock company’, as
was the slavish devotion to hand-crafting art deco interiors so fanciful and
spectacular they could only exist as back lot facades to another realm of
absolute make believe, far removed from the world at large. With Top Hat, the Astaire/Rogers chemistry
reached its zenith. The film abounds with clichés that, for their time at
least, were as fresh and inviting as its potpourri of Irving Berlin songs; each
to become a standard on the hit parade, including the sublime and romantic, ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ the charming, ‘Isn’t It A Lovely Day’ and the
grandiose ‘Picolino’ – a fiesta of
tap set against the stunning backdrop of an art deco Venice, complete with
glistening black water canals. The picture is also infamous for a near falling
out between Rogers and Mark Sandrich after Astaire illustrated his displeasure
over a gown Rogers had helped to design, made entirely of pale blue ostrich
feathers for their penultimate pas deux to ‘Cheek
to Cheek’. The gown shed atrociously
all over Astaire’s tuxedo. But Rogers refused to budge on her decision to wear
it. After several takes, the molting subsided to a degree where Astaire could
complete the dance without too many feathers getting on his clothes.
In Top Hat, Astaire plays showman Jerry
Travers, a hoofer touring in a revue from producer Horace Hardwick (Edward
Everett Horton). Through a case of mistaken identity, Jerry is presumed to be
Horace – a married man – with whom Dale Tremont (Rogers) has already fallen in
love. Emotionally scarred by this misdirection, as Horace is the husband of her
best friend, Dale attempts to marry her dress maker, Roberto Beddini (Erik
Rhodes) with comical results. Throughout, director Mark Sandrich never once
fumbles any of these loose narrative threads, delivering an impeccably crafted
musical extravaganza that is riotous, engaging and decidedly above par for the
Astaire/Rogers’ collaborations that preceded it. The relationship between
Sandrich and Rogers was never on solid ground. In fact, Sandrich often treated
Rogers with considerable disdain, prompting Berman to draft a rather forthright
and stern letter to his director, encouraging him to reconsider where his own
bread and butter resided; in keeping both Rogers and Astaire happy and making
more of the same at RKO. To this end,
Berman assigned Sandrich directorial duties on Follow the Fleet (1936) a film that haplessly miscasts Astaire as
able-bodied seaman, Bake Baker.
The move to
de-glamorize Astaire’s trademarked ‘top hat, white tie and tails’ image was
deliberate; perceived to make him over as more of a proletariat than a paragon.
But Astaire just looks silly, and gaunt in sailor’s garb. Despite some
wonderfully comedic moments, it remains more than a little challenging to
accept Astaire as the GOB on a manly 48 hour leave in New York City;
particularly, as the infinitely manlier, Randolph Scott is once more cast as
his best friend. Baker is out to rekindle a romance with old flame and hat
check girl cum dancer, Sherry Martin (Rogers). Baker’s ‘above board’ shipmate,
Bilge Smith (Randolph Scott) is a rapscallion with the ladies and shows no
signs of stopping when he takes up with Sherry's naïve sister, Connie (Harriet
Hilliard of future Ozzie and Harriet television fame). The wrinkle is Connie wants
a home and family while Bilge just wants to have fun. Can love blossom under
these circumstances? Of course, but not before Bake and Bilge are thrown into
the brig for jumping ship and breaking curfew. Once again, the picture’s
salvation is Irving Berlin’s magnificent score, introducing such standards as ‘Let Yourself Go’, ‘I’m Putting All My Eggs in One Basket’ and the haunting ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance.’
Immediately
following the picture’s success, Berman elected to give Rogers a break from
Sandrich – or vice versa; the next Astaire/Rogers’ collaboration, Swing Time (1936) directed by master
storyteller, George Stevens. Rogers could not have been more pleased,
particularly as a romance quickly blossomed between her and Stevens;
short-lived, but great for their working relationship. By now, Rogers had
proven her personal life could be as difficult to downright flawed. Her second
marriage to actor, Lew Ayres was on the rocks, and Rogers – ever the perfectionist
– invested herself body and soul in this, arguably, the very best of her
on-screen partnerships with Astaire. Alas, the public perception at the time
was not quite as assured. Although Swing
Time features some of the most sublime imagery in any Astaire/Rogers
musical, and songs as memorably written by Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields, box
office returns were less than impressive. For this outing, Astaire was put back
in familiar garb – white tie and tails - as John ‘Lucky’ Garnett. Garnett is
engaged – repeatedly – to Margaret Watson (Betty Furness). But after being
tricked out of their nuptials for the umpteenth time, Margaret calls it quits.
Determined to win back her affections, Lucky decides to earn enough money to
prove himself. Instead, he accidentally runs into – and nearly tramples - Penny
Carroll (Rogers) a winsome dance instructor who mistakes Lucky for a flat foot.
This kink is ironed out in the charming dance-off; ‘Pick Yourself Up.’ Afterward, Penny and Lucky develop a successful
dance partnership; their burgeoning romance, blunted when Margaret returns to
reclaim Lucky whom she now deems worthy of her affections.
Swing Time features three of Astaire/Rogers’ best choreographed
routines; the aforementioned ‘Pick
Yourself Up,’ the passionate and playful ‘Waltz in Swing Time,’ and the spellbindingly brilliant, ‘Never Gonna Dance’, effortlessly danced
inside a two-tiered glittering nightclub after all the other patrons have gone
home. Arguably, there was nowhere to go but down and Mark Sandrich’s Shall We Dance (1937) marks the
beginning of this slow spiral – despite a brilliant score from George and Ira
Gershwin. On this occasion, Astaire is miscast as ballet legend, Petrov Peters.
Petrov orchestrates a not-so-chance meeting aboard an Atlantic luxury liner so
he can pursue Broadway musical star, Linda Keene (Rogers). Unfortunately,
reporters snap up the story and turn it into a nasty bit of gossip – touting a
secret marriage both Petrov and Linda feel they must embrace to keep up
appearances. The picture’s outstanding sequence is the delightful ‘Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off’ danced
on roller skates presumably in Central Park – but actually on an RKO
soundstage. The tragedy of the picture is George Gershwin did not live to see
its completion – succumbing to a brain tumor. An immense loss to the artistic
community, Gershwin’s passing sent the tail end of the shoot into a dour mood
and tail spin even before its premiere. Although engaging enough, Shall We Dance is not vintage
Astaire/Rogers, though frequently if gives a fairly good imitation of being as
much.
The same is truer
still of their next collaboration, Carefree
(1938) – a politely amusing screwball comedy masquerading as a legitimate
musical. At 88 minutes, Carefree is
the slightest of the Astaire/Rogers’ pictures and very much more Rogers’ movie
than Astaire’s. She is Amanda Cooper; the on again/off again fiancée of Stephen
Arden (Ralph Bellamy). Steve desperately wants Amanda to commit to him. So, he
sends her to his good friend, Dr. Tony Flagg (Astaire) to seek psychiatric
counseling for her marriage phobia. One problem – Amanda falls in love with
Tony and Tony starts to dig Amanda. She, in turn, is hypnotized by Tony to hate
him and fall in love with Stephen. But the plan backfires when Tony refuses to
entirely surrender his love for Amanda. Irving Berlin’s score is really a one
hit wonder – ‘Change Partners’ sung
poignantly and with great affection by Astaire and later, all too briefly
danced by Astaire and Rogers – presumably in a trance-like dream sequence. Less
successful is ‘The Yam’ – a
colossally clumsy lyric that Berlin promoted as a valiant successor to ‘The Picolino’ and ‘The Continental’ but that Astaire absolutely refused to entertain.
Throughout the 1930’s Fred Astaire actually introduced more hit standards in
these pictures than Bing Crosby on the hit parade. To break this stalemate,
Sandrich coaxed Rogers to sing the lyric to The
Yam, thereafter awkwardly danced by Astaire and Rogers inside a posh
country club. Carefree was not a hit
for RKO. In fact, it became the first Astaire/Rogers picture to lose money.
Desperately,
Berman gambled on a reprieve for his most enduring screen team. Alas, his
decision to re-tell the story of famed 1920’s dancers Vernon and Irene Castle
was a miscalculation from which the Astaire and Rogers’ partnership at RKO
would not survive. By 1939, audiences had tired of the formula to their
pictures. Ironically, this should have made The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle a big hit, as it is nothing
like any of the Astaire/Rogers’ musicals that preceded it. For one, it is a
biopic, staunchly dictated by the taste and temperament of the real Irene
Castle, who vehemently disavowed Berman’s decision to cast Ginger in the lead.
Irene would have preferred an international search for a virtual unknown. Due
to a clause in her contract, Irene also had sway over the dances created by her
late husband and how these were to be depicted on film. Hence, Astaire and
Rogers were confined to emulating the Castles’ without embellishing their
style. Finally, the picture presented a real problem for producers as Irene
insisted it conclude with the death of her husband.
For all these
restrictions, The Story of Vernon and
Irene Castle is hardly the musical turkey it was perceived as in 1939; the
year of so many stellar entertainments on Hollywood’s horizon. Astaire and Rogers portray this team who
invented ‘the Castle-walk’ and changed the face of ballroom dancing forever
with great fidelity and reverence. And, they manage, despite their conflicts of
interest, to convey a genuine warmth throughout. The film begins in earnest
with Vernon (Astaire) falling madly for stage-struck Irene Foote (Rogers). A
few light-hearted misadventures later and the two are married. At Irene's
insistence, the couple embarks upon a career devoted to their love of dance.
But this nearly impoverishes them. Enter agent (and fairy godmother of sorts)
Maggie Sutton (Edna May Oliver) who rescues the team from oblivion and
transforms their meager beginnings into a brilliant career. The chief perceived
problem with The Story of Vernon and
Irene Castle in 1939 was it did not adhere to any of the conventions of the
typical Astaire/Rogers’ musical. And yet, in hindsight, this seems an almost
refreshing departure. Regrettably, Vernon’s draft into service and his being
killed in action during WWI concludes the picture on a maudlin note. As
something of a compromise, the picture ends on something of a fantasy memory;
Irene and the ghostly apparition of her husband whirling about the grounds of a
stately garden.
Nearly a decade
passed before Astaire and Rogers reappeared on the screen together again. In
that interim the Hollywood musical had greatly changed and so had Astaire and
Rogers. As he had in 1930, Fred once again contemplated retirement; lured on as
an independent into various projects throughout the decade at Paramount and
RKO, including the perennial Christmas favorite, Holiday Inn (1942), the less than stellar, The Sky’s the Limit (1943), and, lavishly appointed Blue Skies (1946) in which Astaire
famously danced with eleven carbon-copies of himself. But in 1948, Astaire was
successfully encouraged to partake of a multi-picture contract at MGM. He had
already done a picture for Metro, Broadway
Melody of 1940; costarring their ‘tops
in taps’ leading lady, Eleanor Powell – the pair’s tap routine to Cole
Porter’s ‘Begin the Beguine’ a
mesmerizing and unequalled display of spellbinding talent that ought to have
led to more. Alas, Astaire refused to partner up with any ‘one’ dancer ever
again; a sincere loss to audiences. Had it not been for Gene Kelly breaking his
ankle just prior to the start of Easter
Parade (1948), Astaire might have quit the screen for good after Blue Skies. Instead, he came on board
at the last minute, and proved yet again he could dance with the likes of a temperamental
Judy Garland. Astaire’s tenure at MGM would see him appear opposite various
leading ladies, including Jane Powell (Royal
Wedding 1951), Vera Ellen (The Belle
of New York 1952), and the leggy Cyd Charisse – with whom he partnered
twice (first, in The Band Wagon
1953, then again, for Silk Stockings
1957).
Amidst this
regal assemblage, Astaire’s re-teaming with Ginger Rogers for The Barkleys of Broadway (1949) went
practically unnoticed. Indeed, by the end of the 40’s, Rogers had established
herself as an Oscar-winning actress; her gold statuette for Kitty Foyle (1940), launching a
lucrative string of serious and comedy hits that included The Major and the Minor, Roxie
Hart (both in 1942), the war-time weepy,
I’ll Be Seeing You (1944) and the all-star remake of Grand Hotel, rechristened as Week-end
at the Waldorf (1945). The reunion of Astaire and Rogers occurred almost by
accident after Astaire adamantly refused to work with Judy Garland again. In
fairness to Garland, she was greatly suffering from an addiction to
studio-sanctioned pills; her emotional fragility compounding anxieties and
stressors that had resulted in repeated delays throughout the shooting of Easter Parade. In a moment of pure
inspiration, producer Arthur Freed turned to Rogers as Garland’s replacement. But
even before this, Rogers had signaled her openness to do another picture with
Astaire. Hence, Barkleys became a reality for them both. Regrettably, and
despite its use of Technicolor, The
Barkleys of Broadway is not so much a final installment in the
Astaire/Rogers canon as a painful reminder of how time had altered the
chemistry in their coupling. Barkleys features some very fine
choreography, particularly ‘Bouncing the
Blues’ – an electrifying ‘rehearsal’ tap routine.
The picture also
rectifies a sin committed on Shall We
Dance. In that movie, Astaire had warbled the melodic ‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me’ – a song begging for an elegant
pas deux to follow. It never happened. The musical highlight of The Barkleys of Broadway is thus, the
delayed reprise of this moment; Astaire, once again serenading Rogers with the
sublime George and Ira Gershwin ballad before taking her for one final spin
around the ballroom floor. The chief hurdle of Barkleys is its
otherwise gimmicky numbers; that, and the fact its feeble plot does everything
to keep Astaire and Rogers apart, or, at the very least, feuding as old
marrieds on the cusp of either a divorce or reconciliation. Astaire’s solo, ‘Shoes with Wings On’ relies much too heavily on special effects,
while his partnering with Rogers for ‘My
One and Only Highland Fling’ affords little opportunity to perform anything
but perfunctory steps that never truly test – much less strain – their
abilities. The pair are virtually obliterated during the ‘Swing Trot’, a bouncy tune featured under the main titles. This
leaves us with the finale, ‘Manhattan
Down Beat’ – a garish mishmash of styles; Astaire and Rogers flanked by a
rotating platform of dancers strutting to a truly awkward and rather sour,
Harry Warren/Ira Gershwin tune.
The plot
concerns marrieds, Josh (Astaire) and Dinah (Rogers) Barkley. On the surface,
the two have everything that is good and enviable; each other and a string of
hit shows having made them the toast of Broadway. But behind the scenes they
cannot seem to agree on anything. She wants to break free of musical comedy,
and he, perceiving himself as her rather arrogant Svengali, thinks she will
miserably fail without his constant guidance. Enter Jacques Pierre Barredout
(Jacques François); producer of ‘serious’ theater, who
encourages Dinah to spread her artistic wings for him. Barredout casts Dinah in
his production of ‘Young Sarah’ – the
story of Sarah Bernhardt. With all due respect to Rogers’ abilities as a
dramatic actress, her penultimate, and supposedly impassioned recitation of La Marseillaise is laughable at best.
Despite her overwhelming success in Barredout’s play, Dinah elects to return to
her husband and open in another musical comedy; particularly after she
discovers how utterly forlorn and lost he has become without her.
Although The Barkleys of Broadway made money for
MGM, it was not a mega hit for the studio, quashing any future plans for
another re-teaming of Astaire and Rogers. In hindsight, the picture’s luke warm
response also seemed to suggest the era that had cemented the Astaire/Rogers’
iconography, still highly prized in theatrical re-issues of their old RKO
movies throughout the 1940’s had since passed them by. Times had changed.
Tastes too. It is one of those rarities in Hollywood that in the interim since,
the names Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers have only become more synonymous with each
other; their careers apart – particularly Ginger’s – eclipsed by the enduring
memory of these nine memorable outings at RKO. There has never been, nor will
there likely ever be ‘another’ Astaire and Rogers in the movies. Despite the
timeless appeal of their work together, the present era, alas, is hardly suited
to elegance. And yet, the power of their screen presence continues to hold us
spellbound in the dark. As ghost flowers from an entirely ‘other’ generation,
steeped in tactful repose virtually unfathomable to today’s, Fred Astaire and
Ginger Rogers continue to exude an intangible brand of screen magic even more
unique now, as it remains humbling to observe, even at a glance. And as the
years continue to pass, the likelihood their ilk will ever entirely diminish in
prestige seems very dim indeed. For real/reel taste, elegance and style never
goes entirely ‘out’ of fashion. And Astaire and Rogers possessed these
qualities in spades.
Were that
someone at Warner Home Video or the Warner Archive would agree to as much. It
is positively obscene to be extolling the virtues of Astaire and Rogers in
2018, in review of a DVD box set released by Warner Home Video back in 1999
with virtually none of their movies available on Blu-ray since. For decades, this
absence on home video stemmed from a rights debacle between Warner – the
present custodians of the RKO library – and Robyn Smith; the horse jockey whom
Astaire wed in 1980; seven years before his death and whose demands for
compensation were difficult, if not impossible to meet – thereby holding the
entire Astaire/Rogers’ catalog hostage. Negotiations inevitably were resolved
in 1999, enough for Warner to release two individual sets timed almost a year
apart, and then, this compendium ‘complete’ box featuring all 10 movies, plus
an hour-long documentary on the legendary teaming. Astaire and Rogers: The Ultimate Collection advertises all 10 films
have been digitally restored and remastered. Alas, the results are something of
a mixed bag. For the most part, nothing represented here will truly disappoint.
And yet, there are misfires to be discussed.
The very best
standard-def transfers in this collection are The Gay Divorcee, Top Hat,
Swing Time and The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle. Here, the B&W image has
been impeccably cleaned up with fine details realized throughout. Solid deep
blacks and very clean whites greet the viewer and the overall image is, if not
perfect, then without incident, save some light speckling and a few age-related
artifacts. To a lesser extent Flying
Down to Rio, Roberta and Carefree also deserve honorable mention
for overall picture quality that is just a shade below the standard already
discussed. Regrettably, Shall We Dance
is a grainy, often softy focused, poorly contrasted and digitally harsh mess.
Black levels wallow in a nondescript tonal gray and age-related artifacts are
everywhere. Lastly, The Barkleys of
Broadway – the only color film in the set – sports an unresolved transfer that
belies its Technicolor origins and is far below expectations. Colors are quite
muddy. The image is also rather softly focused. Flesh tones veer between garish
orange and piggy pink. There is also an inexplicable milky haze afflicting this
transfer that distills contrast levels to a mid-range of dullness. As example,
Rogers’ shimmering green sequin gown melts into the black background of the taxi
she shares with Astaire. Overall, fine details are not realized.
Four of the
films in this set include audio commentaries and a featurette. For the rest,
Warner has padded this set with short subjects and theatrical trailers. All are
packaged in slim-line cases. Apart from some nicely put together swag
(reproductions of poster art and stills) the only extra worth noting is the
feature-length documentary: Astaire and
Rogers: Partners in Rhythm. As a documentary, it only scratches the
surface. There’s virtually little to no back story on either star’s private
life, no intimate details excised from well-researched archival interviews,
journals, etc. We do get snippets and sound bites taken from several vintage
interviews and some commentary from the likes of Astaire’s daughter, Ava, and,
composer, Michael Feinstein among others. But overall, the results are more
truncated than comprehensive and that’s a shame. One yearns, as example, for
the sort of immersive storytelling shown in documentaries like MGM: When the Lion Roars or Cleopatra: The Film that Changed Hollywood.
But alas, Partners in Rhythm is more
of a glowing ‘puff piece’ – good, but not great. Given the girth of both star’s
careers, and all the literature available on them, this could have been much
better. We also get a ten song CD sampler of some of the best loved musical
moments in the Astaire/Rogers’ canon. Bottom line: by now all of these movies
ought to have made the leap to hi-def. We’ll wait in the hope of better things
to come.
FILM RATING (out of 5 - 5 being the best)
Flying Down to
Rio 3
The Gay Divorcee
4
Roberta 2.5
Top Hat 5+
Swing Time 5+
Follow the Fleet
4.5
Shall We Dance
3.5
Carefree 3.5
The Story of
Vernon and Irene Castle 3
The Barkley's of
Broadway 2
VIDEO/AUDIO
Flying Down to
Rio 4
The Gay Divorcee
4
Roberta 3.5
Top Hat 4
Swing Time 3.5
Follow the Fleet
3.5
Shall We Dance 2.5
Carefree 3.5
The Story of Vernon
and Irene Castle 3
The Barkley's of
Broadway 2,5
EXTRAS
3
Comments