TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME: Blu-ray (MGM, 1949) Warner Archive

There are two enduring schools of thought on Busby Berkeley. The first, rightfully proclaims him as a genius, while the latter infers he possessed no great talent beyond that of a drill sergeant, ordering about his chorines and super stars with pontificating noblesse oblige. Precisely where the nugget of truth lies to be unearthed is dependent on the level of praise or contempt one has for the musical styling Berkeley has wrought. While it is fair to assess Buzz as lacking any formal training, either as a dancer or choreographer in the traditional sense (he would be the first to admit as much) and furthermore, to infer his camera, as much as his chorines, performed in all those surreal and impressionist flights of fancy, Berkeley’s resultant picturization of ‘dance’ on celluloid is as much indigenous to the art of movie-making as it could never be achieved on a real stage, or even, appealing to that faux audiences, supposedly sitting in a theater within the show, observing such spectacles from their box or isle seats. Consequently, any homage to Berkeley – and there have been many over the decades – owes at least a nod to his uncanny perception of cinema space and his natural ability to fill virtually all of its cavernous crevices with something utterly fascinating to behold. Berkeley on film is therefore an exercise, not in the art of dance, rather in the virtuosity of his technical staging. Nowhere was this more transparent than during Buzz’s Warner years when the full breadth of his heart and imagination were basically given carte blanche to experiment in new and invigorating ways.

Given Berkeley’s supremacy at Warner Bros. throughout the 1930’s, his tenure as choreographer/director at MGM was decidedly something of a letdown for fans, as well as Berkeley, who increasingly found Metro’s ‘in house’ style an anathema to his own. And therein, the power struggles began, clashes with his authoritarian dignity over creative control. Berkeley came to MGM via the good graces of producer, Arthur Freed who genuinely loved and respected the caustic Berkeley. But the move was made after a particularly nasty split from his alma mater, further complicated by severe alcoholism and a near fatal car crash. At MGM, Berkeley was given every opportunity to helm big budget movie musicals. But the projects were not always his alone to command. Indeed, Metro’s 'art by committee' approach for getting the job done did not bode well with Berkeley's need for absolute control. And Metro’s star system was also a problem for Berkeley, who preferred to fill his lenses with beautiful, but nondescript starlets. So, when his tyrannical demands on Judy Garland resulted – at least, partly – in her suffering a complete mental collapse midway through the shooting of Girl Crazy (1943) it was Berkeley, not Garland, whom the studio chose to replace on the project.

In truth, Berkeley’s alcoholism was getting the better of him by the time he agreed to direct Take Me Out to The Ball Game (1949) – the second teaming of Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra after 1945’s Oscar-nominated, Anchors Aweigh. Much was expected of Berkeley to create something that was at least as visually arresting as that previous endeavor. Freed had initially green lit a radically different concept written by Kelly and his co-collaborator, Stanley Donen to have developed the character of K.C. Higgins (a part eventually played by Esther Williams) as a chanteuse – not one of William’s strong suits. In the Kelly/Donen synopsis, the triumvirate included a reunion with Anchors Aweigh costar, Kathryn Grayson. Alas, as Grayson was busy elsewhere, and Judy Garland - Donen's second choice, proved unable – or perhaps, unwilling to subject herself once more to Berkeley’s autocracy. Hence, Freed foisted Esther Williams upon the project.  Williams, had already proven her mettle in the opulent aqua-spectacular, Bathing Beauty (1944), ironically, a musical/comedy in which she was not required to sing a single note. Excising all of the songs afforded K.C. Higgins, Freed also insisted there be at least one insertion of an utterly needless swimming pool sequence to satisfy Williams’ fans. And thus, Sinatra’s top-billed second baseman, Dennis Ryan was given a luscious ballad, ‘The Right Girl for Me’ to serenade while Esther swam.

Nine original songs were eventually written by Betty Comden, Adolph Green and Roger Edens, alas, with the only memorable one, still the 1908 title tune, written by Harry Van Tilzer and Jack Norworth. Berkeley, who had been hired to direct the film in totem relinquished his responsibilities on staging the musical sequences to Kelly and Donen, which made his involvement all the more curious. Indeed, during his Warner tenure, it had been the other way around, with Berkeley firmly in charge of the songs and dances. In his stead, Kelly and Donen, no slouches in the art and craft of creating routines, conceived some brilliant, but also a few mediocre, production numbers to fill the picture’s run time. The plot eventually revamped by screenwriters, Harry Tugend and George Wells follows Dennis Ryan and Edward O’Brien (Gene Kelly); a pair of turn-of-the-century ballplayers who, while on hiatus from their day jobs, enjoy lucrative second careers as Vaudevillian song and dance men. Although Ryan truly loves baseball, O’Brien prefers the female adoration and celebrity afforded him as a stage performer. Reunited at basic training with short stop, Nat Goldberg (Jules Munshin), the boys are informed by their General Manager, Michael Gilhuly (Richard Lane) that the new owner of the team, K.C. Higgins will be coming down to supervise their exercises.

Assuming K.C. Higgins is a man, coach Slappy Burke (Tom Dugan) misses her at the train depot, resulting in a rather awkward first ‘cute’ meet between O’Brien and Higgins, who take an immediate and intense dislike to each another. Ryan, on the other hand, is smitten. While Higgins realizes Ryan’s affections are genuine, her love/hate relationship with the egotistical O’Brien has her flustered and confused. Meanwhile, baseball groupie, Shirley Delwyn (Betty Garrett) has developed her own possessiveness towards Ryan. This eventually blossom into an awkward, though mutual romance. A wrinkle for the team’s pending season develops when mob boss, Joe Lorgan (Edward Arnold) attempts to buy off Ryan, the team’s star player. Either Ryan deliberately throws his games to satisfy a bet against the rival team or Lorgan will go to the baseball commission and demand Ryan’s disbarment from the sport for breaking curfew. Eventually, this double life weighs heavily on Ryan’s stamina and his game begins to suffer. Higgins, assuming Ryan has, in fact, been working for Lorgan to ruin their season, suspends him from the team. Presumably because this plot development has painted all of these characters into a very awkward narrative corner, the film concludes abruptly on a distinctly convenient, dismissive and very sour musical note. The characters step out of themselves and sing an implausible summation; “Sinatra gets Garrett, Kelly gets Williams, for that’s the plot the author wrote…”

Despite its rather clumsy conclusion, Take Me Out to the Ball Game proved a winner with audiences, grossing $4,344,000.00 on its initial release. There is a lot to admire in this decidedly minor pastiche to America’s favorite past time. Yet, the picture falls decidedly short of expectations, particularly in the wake of Kelly and Sinatra's gargantuan debut together in Anchors Aweigh. And Sinatra, by this time, had weathered the chronic and un-welcomed prospect of playing ‘second fiddle’ yet again to Kelly in the manliness department. Cast as the goofy and ineffectual novice to Kelly’s wolf, a maestro in the love-making department, did not sit well with Sinatra. Indeed, by 1946, Sinatra was almost as notorious off screen for his own love-making prowess. So, clearly, he needed no help there. But presenting himself on the screen as the skinny wimp, who always settles for second best after Kelly’s robust figure has won the girl, was beginning to wear thin on the set. And thus, a few minor, if still very much heated, skirmishes left the situation between the co-stars with a contempt brewing.  At the same time, Kelly’s relationship with his behind-the-scenes collaborator, Stanley Donen was not on solid terms. Donen’s ambition was decidedly to direct. And although he fully acknowledged, at the start of his career, that he owed Kelly everything for pulling him in on the ground floor of a great opportunity as his choreographic collaborator, Donen had since proven to Metro’s top brass he understood the musical medium without Kelly’s help or advice. 

Strangely, in just about every way outside of its box office take, Take Me Out to the Ball Game turned out to be a poor cousin to Anchors Aweigh. Sinatra and Kelly do a fine tap routine to the title tune with Sinatra's dancing having immensely improved since his pas deux with Kelly in Anchors Aweigh. He doesn't stare at his feet anymore as he and Kelly trip the light fantastic. And Sinatra, unlike Kelly, was a great singer too.  Sinatra's MGM persona, the antithesis of Kelly's exuberant all-American hunk, seems strained here. Clearly, Sinatra is not happy playing the lesser typed scrawny and self-conscious hick. His goofy confrontations with the riotously libidinous Betty Garrett make for some real silly badinage, but frisk-less foreplay. Esther Williams - though not the first choice - fits in rather nicely with the boys. Her comic timing is the stuff of genius, keeping many a tired old gag afloat in the Tugend/Wells’ script. But adding Jules Munshin into this mix is awkward at best. Indeed, Munshin – a gifted comedian - is so distantly the ‘third wheel’ here, his buffoonery literally gilds the lily without affording the actor any of his own petals to indulge. By the end of the show, it seems pointless to downright silly to have him appear at all. Take Me Out to The Ball Game has great charm – in spots. But it also struggles to sustain an acceptable level of laughs effortlessly blended with songs and dances. Apart from the aforementioned tap routine with Sinatra, Kelly only gets one more opportunity to show off his talents real/reel dancing talents in the number, The Hat My Dear Old Father Wore upon St. Patrick's Day. His other songs, ‘Yes Indeedy’ and ‘O’Brien to Ryan to Goldberg’ are specialty numbers shared by Sinatra and Munshin in which Kelly must play down his talent, not to upstage either costar. And the picture also commits the grave sin of not having Kelly and Esther Williams perform together, ergo, the musical spark-plug in their rom/com is decidedly missing. Originally, a number ‘Baby Doll’ was scripted and shot, but left on the cutting room floor shortly thereafter, presumably for time constraints. The number – another turn-of-the-century charmer -- is not a ballad and is of such a theatrical quality (and not in a good way) one can easily see why it never made the final cut.

Warner Archive’s new-to-Blu of Take Me Out to the Ball Game is a revelation. WAC has done some of its very best work this year resurrecting MGM’s classic 3-strip Technicolor musicals in hi-def. Arguably, Take Me Out to the Ball Game is their finest restoration yet. The extraordinary level of color saturation here will take your breath away. Colors not only pop but attain a level of total perfection, with flesh tones looking utterly incredible and reds, greens and yellows positively leaping off the screen.  Fine details abound, with a light smattering of film grain looking indigenous to its 35mm source. Contrast is excellent, with deep solid blacks and pristine whites. The original Westrex mono has been faithfully reproduced in 1.0 DTS and sounds solid. Extras favor an original theatrical trailer – badly worn - and the musical outtake - 'Baby Doll' sung by Kelly and mimed by Williams. It's an uninspired sequence, later re-purposed using a different setting for the Fred Astaire/Vera Ellen musical, The Belle of New York (1952). Bottom line: Take Me Out to the Ball Game is a Sinatra/Kelly musical not in the same league as either Anchors Aweigh which predates it, or On the Town, shot first in 1949, but released afterward. Were that someone at WAC would take a second ‘whack’ at both of these catalog releases for a badly needed upgrade, as neither – already on Blu – looks as startlingly solid or plush as this one. Very highly recommended!

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

3

VIDEO/AUDIO

5+

EXTRAS

1