HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN: Blu-ray reissue (Samuel Goldwyn, 1952) Warner Archive

A painfully puerile attempt to celebrate the Danish author of so many beloved children’s fables, Charles Vidor’s Hans Christian Andersen (1952) is an absurdly lavish, though woefully undernourished claptrap, loosely stringing together several of Andersen’s more celebrated fairy tales into an incomprehensible ‘biography’ that even the film’s prologue laughingly refuses to acknowledge and I quote, “Once upon a time there lived in Denmark a great storyteller named Hans Christian Andersen. This is not the story of his life, but a fairy tale about the great spinner of fairy tales.” Well put, but erroneously executed with the usually effervescent, Danny Kaye herein recast as an elfin clod, seemingly unable to slip into his clogs and fly a kite at the same time. Kaye, who made his name and reputation as an irrefutable genius of pantomime, slapstick, and, improvisation under an exclusive contract with Samuel Goldwyn throughout the 1940’s, in a series of classy smash hits as the leering comic of formidable panache and timing, is very un-Kaye-like herein. And it does neither the star nor his Danish alter ego any favors. Kaye is in exceptional voice, as he proves throughout the Frank Loesser score. He is particularly affecting in “Anywhere I Wander” – a melodic love ballad – and “The Ugly Duckling” – sung to brighten the spirits of a forlorn child, obviously suffering from some great illness. But for the rest, Loesser’s songs are moppet-happy treacle of the most absurd order; as in the jovially self-congratulatory and feather-weight “I’m Hans Christian Andersen” – interpolated throughout various vignettes, whenever Kaye’s misguided wanderer feels he needs to reassert his own legacy upon his ever-loyal travelling companion, Peter (Joey Walsh) or the unsuspecting inhabitants of “Wonderful Copenhagen”, and even more repetitively idiotic warbling of the “Inchworm” or “The King’s New Clothes” – all bounce and modest fizzle.

Goldwyn’s overzealous verve in producing this clunker with all the trappings money can buy was, for better or worse, a big hit in 1952. Clearly the innocence of the piece appealed to many a mid-western mom, dragging her little Tommy Fluffball and Suzy Cream Cheese off to the Bijou for the Saturday matinee. Don’t get me wrong. I love sugary sweetness and family entertainment. But it must be universal in its appeal in order for it to become timeless.  Even as pure cinematic storytelling of the musical/comedy ilk, Hans Christian Andersen is problematic;  Zizi Jeanmaire and Farley Granger, herein cast as temperamental ballet dancer, Dora - whom Hans falls haplessly in love with - and ballet master/hubby, Niels - not above giving his prima donna the back of his hand when she fails to whirl like a dervish on stage. Clearly neither Niels, nor screenwriter Moss Hart had come to appreciate the ramifications of spousal abuse on the kiddy mindset. But in transforming the Dane’s most celebrated children’s author, Hans Christian Andersen into a socially stunted adult, both the man and the artist are ill-served in this Hollywood glam-bam. The scholarly storyteller of history, christened a national treasure, gets unceremoniously reconstituted as a somewhat effete middle-aged shoemaker who knows absolutely nothing about life or women. Worse, Danny Kaye’s rendering of the man, veers into self-effacing naïveté.

The trajectory of Kaye’s career is definitely worth noting here. He made his film debut in Moon Over Manhattan (1935), a movie that garnered interest from New York–based Educational Pictures, who signed him to play a curiously raven-haired, hysterical Russian for a series of two-reel comedies in 1937. Kaye was also moonlighting in the Catskills under the name Danny Kolbin when the studio suddenly went under, taking his career with it. His next attempt, Broadway’s The Straw Hat Revue – was also short-lived. But in 1941, he starred opposite the legendary Gertrude Lawrence in Lady in the Dark, in which he nearly stole the show with ‘Tchaikovsky…and Other Russians’ where he seemed to rattle off an endless litany of Russian composers without taking a breath. Kaye followed this success up with Let’s Face It (1942), another less than prominent theatrical endeavor. There was an upside to this belly flop; namely, that Goldwyn – who had been scouting for new talent to add to his picture-making roster, decided Kaye was a solid bet, and signed him to star in 1944’s Up in Arms – a loose remake of 1930's Whoopee!  And if Goldwyn briefly struggled to find the right properties to plug in Kaye’s talents, radio proved an excellent filler: The Danny Kaye Show on CBS (1945-46) a real crowd-pleaser that Kaye abandoned to participate in a USO tour following the end of World War II. Meanwhile, Goldwyn had seemingly discovered Kaye’s niche, casting his star opposite contract player, Virginia Mayo in a series of glossy and escapist Technicolor fantasies, including the delightful, Wonder Man (1945), The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1947), The Inspector General (1949). For 2oth Century-Fox, Kaye made On the Riviera (1951), and then, for Paramount, White Christmas (1954), The Court Jester (1956), and Merry Andrew (1958). So, Kaye’s commitment to Hans Christian Andersen was not so much a kick start to his even bigger successes of the decade, but a fond farewell to Goldwyn, for which a goodly investment had been made on his behalf to make the movie a big and boisterous Technicolor extravaganza.  

The venial plot, scripted by the otherwise usually brilliant, Moss Hart, based on a story idea by Myles Connolly, is basically an excuse to shoe horn a series of musical skits, dream sequences and ballets to celebrate the real Andersen's most enduring literary masterworks: The Ugly Duckling, Thumbelina, The Emperor's New Clothes and The Little Mermaid. And while audiences were enchanted with the results, the Danish authorities – never consulted by Goldwyn – were not at all pleased with the distillation of their beloved author into a rather buffoonish peddler of tales. For Goldwyn, the movie marked the beginning of his final flourish as an indie producer. Ousted at the outset from the newly amalgamated Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer studios in 1929, Goldwyn became a maverick producer with big dreams, and even bigger ambitions to see them through. The concept for Hans Christian Andersen had, in fact, been bubbling in his creative genius since 1936 and, in 1941, he approached Walt Disney to produce the picture. Alas, Disney – encumbered by the weighty financial investment, and tepid box office receipts on Pinocchio and Fantasia (both in 1940, and neither to have proved a winner) was hardly in a position to entertain Goldwyn’s offer. And thus, the deal fell apart.

Hans lives with his apprentice, and Jiminy Cricket-styled social conscience, Peter (Joseph Walsh) inside a not terribly prepossessing cottage on the outskirts of their modest town. The children adore Hans’ stories. But the adults – particularly, the schoolmaster (John Brown) – see Hans as a threat to their inevitable maturity into productive members of society. It is a fair concern, as Hans seems to exist within a social vacuum of his own design; his out of the way sequestering of the prepubescent population – lured over the bridge and away from their parents - and studies - to sail a kite, by his deliberate design, undermining adulthood with a curiously faint whiff of pedophilia to boot. Seriously, if ole Hans is lonely, he ought to get himself some adult friends and leave the toddler sect alone. Town council eventually elects to remove Hans from their midst and Peter, having overheard their plans, makes haste to Hans’ home beforehand to encourage him to take a much-needed vacation, thus sparing him the embarrassment of being evicted. After some reluctance, Hans agrees to go to Copenhagen with Peter – the two embarking on what is hoped will be a great new adventure.  Alas, their introduction to this papier-mâché recreation of ‘Wonderful Copenhagen’ is hardly warm-hearted. In fact, Hans is promptly arrested for advertising his profession as a seller of stories before the King’s statue.

Once again, Peter comes to Hans’ aid and soon Hans finds work with Copenhagen’s ballet company. He is asked by its prima ballerina, Dora to create a new set of toe shoes that will allow her to stand for longer periods. Prior to this request, Hans has observed the brutality in Dora’s relationship with husband, Niels; the company’s director. The two deliberately taunt one another with insults and barbs. Dora accuses Niels of having boorish and unattainable expectations and he suggests she has been deliberately unprincipled and undisciplined in her craft.  The two then physically assault one another with Hans, at a distance, utterly horrified any man should treat any woman in such a fashion – especially, one he professes to love. Hans develops and incurable loyal streak toward Dora, toiling all night to create dancing slippers that will treasure her feet.  In the morning, Hans presents the shoes to Dora for her approval. She is immensely touched by his diligence, quaint modestly, and, tenderly affectionate stance toward her. But how could Dora conceive Hans’ emotions to be anything more than human kindness when he seems completely to lack that spark of male animal magnetism and is thoroughly incapable of attracting her as a potential mate. Peter begins to sense Hans’ attachment after Hans writes ‘The Little Mermaid’ as an homage to Dora. Misunderstanding Hans’ true intention, Peter inadvertently gives the story to Dora who becomes enchanted by its whimsical simplicity and Niels, believing Hans has written it for the company, rather than his wife, elects to turn it into an opera. Hans, however, is quickly whittled out of the creative process by Niels, who increasingly finds him a minor nuisance.

The next day Hans notices a bald child, Lars (Peter J. Votrian) being ignored by the local children as he tells his stories in the public square, and thus concocts the tale of ‘The Ugly Duckling’ expressly for Lars’ entertainment.  In gratitude for this simple kindness, Lars’ father (Miles Mander), who also happens to be a publisher, elects to print Hans’ stories for the whole world to read. However, just when it looks as though Hans’ future is looking bright, Peter intrudes to clarify for Hans he will never mean anything more to Dora than in friendship. This scene, predominantly in Hans’ admonishment of Peter, whom he orders to return home without him, tingles with a rather transparent air of homo-eroticism. Bitter, though obliging, Peter leaves Hans who pursues Dora at the opera on the eve of the premiere of The Little Mermaid. At Niel’s command, the stage doorman (Robert Malcolm) quietly bars Hans – who has designed a brand new pair of shoes for the occasion - from seeing Dora, and Niels compounds this insult by locking Hans inside one of the rehearsal halls where he remains, thus missing out on his own triumphant debut. The next day, Niels – superficial and heartless – suddenly remembers Hans is still locked in the rehearsal hall. Infuriated with her husband, Dora orders Hans brought to their bedchamber where he can bear witness to Dora’s love for her husband. Realizing Peter was right all along, Hans packs his things and hurries to catch up to Peter and apologize. They are reconciled and reprise several bars of the movie’s title song before returning to their village. As Hans’ published stories have preceded his return, he is now regarded as a national treasure and welcomed back with open arms.

Hans Christian Andersen is so utterly dishonest in its premise, so manipulative in its plaintive plucking at our heart strings that it instantly fails to win our affections in any lasting or sincere manner. For all of the aforementioned reasons, this glossy – undeniably expensive – and even more incredulously studio-bound super production utterly bombs. The ballet sequences, choreographed and occasionally danced by Roland Petit, are a hodgepodge, lushly photographed in Technicolor by Harry Stradling, though heavy-handedly edited by Daniel Mandell. Had the spectacle of it all been handled with a tad more aesthetic agility, perhaps the movie might have avoided such incredibly misguided and idiotically hokum. Alas, the gloss here is superficial at best and wears thin only a few moments into the story. Danny Kaye’s benign and subdued central performance is instantly grating on the eyes, if marginally soothing to the ears. In the final analysis, Hans Christian Andersen limps into its own, as a big-budgeted booby-trap of artistic misfires. These have become more glaringly obvious with the passage of time. Quite simply, the film does not hold up. Frankly, it is a sincere wonder that it ever did.

Warner Archive’s Blu-ray reissue jettisons the plush digi-book packaging for original cover art. Otherwise, this is a straight port-over from the previous Blu-ray and is at least welcome for those who do not share my view of the movie. Grain is a tad thicker on this presentation – odd, as vintage 3-strip Technicolor was a grain-concealing process. Still, colors remain remarkably vibrant – a tribute to those metal-based dyes yielding mostly impressive results. Occasionally, differential shrinkage of the elements results in modest halos cropping up here and there. None will terribly distract, but they are nevertheless quite obvious when they occur. Solid contrast and excellent fine details abound. Age-related artifacts intermittently intrude, but are mostly kept to a bare minimum. Truly, this visual presentation will delight. The audio is DTS mono, but exhibits a startling amount of clarity and bombast – particularly in its score. Other than a theatrical trailer, there are NO extras. Bottom line: for connoisseurs of Kaye only. The rest can pass and be very glad that they did.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

1.5

VIDEO/AUDIO

4

EXTRAS

0