Jeanette & Nelson Musical Show in British Columbia!

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Note: If anyone sees this show, please post a review of it!

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Operettas Bringing Romance to Sidney

Charlotte Corwin has roots in Victoria, but her first visit to Sidney will be to bring operettas to town.

Guest conductor Donald Hunsberger, of New York’s renowned Eastman Wind Ensemble, will lead the Montreal soprano and the Palm Court Light Orchestra in the great operettas of the silver screen….

The concert Feb. 12 will offer the music of Victor Herbert, Rudolf Friml and Sigmund Romberg in selections from The Desert Song, Rose Marie, Naughty Marietta and The Student Prince. The program evokes memories of screen idols Nelson Eddy, Jeanette MacDonald and Mario Lanza.

“I love operetta and I don’t get the opportunity to do it,” Corwin said. She’s been concentrating on serious opera, and is in her third and final year as an apprentice with the Montreal Opera Company.

“I’m trying to get into the real world now,” she said with a laugh.

Operettas of the Silver Screen is Feb. 12 at 2:30 p.m. in the Charlie White Theatre at Mary Winspear Centre. Tickets are $26 and available throught the Mary Winspear Box office 656-0275. To learn more about the Palm Court Light Orchestra and other venues for this concert visit www.palmcourtorchestra.com

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Interesting historical review of new Lubitsch collection

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This DVD collection is now available, order at this link.

From DVD Talk Review:

The Movie:
One of the very few directors of the Golden Age who got his name above the title, Ernst Lubitsch is renowned for his sophistication, elegance, and especially in his pre-Code work, playful bawdiness. All of these elements come into play in these early pieces, which also happen to be brilliant first flowerings of an idiom that would become a paradigm of American film: the musical. If your knowledge of Lubitsch is limited to his later sparkling comedies like To Be or Not To Be or The Shop Around the Corner (which, interestingly, was musicalized in 1949 as the film In the Good Old Summertime and then again years later for Broadway as what many think is Bock and Harnick’s finest work, She Loves Me), you may be in for a bit of a shock with these four films, but a pleasant shock nonetheless.

It may surprise some to discover that Lubitsch was at the forefront of those developing the film musical. His sophisticated dialogue and frequently subversive plot elements don’t seem to be the stuff that fluffy musical comedies are made of, and yet these disparate elements combine surprisingly spryly in these early talkies made between 1929-1932. While all four of the films really resemble operettas more than musicals due to their quasi-light classical musical styles and romanticized European settings, they have a particularly modern sensibility that belies their relative ages and makes them seem more au courant than a lot of the tripe being peddled by studios currently.

The Love Parade, made in 1929, was Lubitsch’s first talkie, and while it is sometimes stilted and in some ways the most dated of the four features in this set (especially with regard to its sentiments vis a vis the proper roles of men and women), it has its share of great Lubitschian moments, most of course spun around that eternal war between the sexes. The film follows the exploits of a lothario diplomat Count portrayed by a charming Maurice Chevalier who returns, after some disastrous affairs in Paris, to his homeland of Sylvania, where he quickly falls in love with his Queen, played by Jeanette MacDonald in her first film role. The Love Parade is full of those throwaway witticisms for which Lubitsch is justly famous. When the Queen’s ministers bemoan the fact that they can’t find a husband for her since a husband would have nothing to do, they pause for a moment, consult among themselves, and then Lubitsch regular Eugene Pallette steps forward and amends (with no leer, but with his meaning perfectly clear), “Well, of course, he’d have something to do,” as MacDonald looks up with a hilariously knowing coquettish, yet slyly innocent, gaze. Once the marriage is a done deal, the film moves into a fairly standard, though nimbly handled, device of Chevalier becoming increasingly disillusioned as he realizes that the Queen is the one wearing the crown (if not the pants) of the family. After some sparring and a few plot machinations, there’s little doubt that a happy ending is fated.

The Love Parade‘s score, by early film stalwart Victor Schertzinger, is a Sigmund Romberg clone with soaring melodies for MacDonald (who perhaps because of early recording deficiencies sounds a bit strident at times and is difficult to decipher, especially in her stratospheric sections) and clever patter songs for Chevalier. Do I dare say that perhaps none other than Stephen Sondheim may have seen this film at one time and gotten his inspiration for “Someone is Waiting” from his musical Company from the sweet duet that Chevalier and MacDonald sing where he starts each phrase with a particular quality that he loves of various women and she finishes it by providing the names of those women?

While the film is hampered somewhat by the technical challenges of early talkies (let alone musicals), with largely static midrange shots, Lubitsch does manage to sneak in a couple of quick dollies and even some overhead shots to liven up the visual presentation. But the film is most truly Lubitschian in the sparkling interplay between MacDonald and Chevalier (despite Chevalier’s broadness, which he frequently plays directly to the “audience,” breaking the filmic fourth wall), with its inherent sweetness never really tarnished by the frequent double entendres and slightly racy occasional subject matter.

Overall Grade: 3.0

1930’s Monte Carlo is apt, like The Love Parade, to raise the ire of ardent feminists who may find offense in the film’s thesis that a strong-minded, independent woman must be “tamed” to find true happiness. That caveat aside, Monte Carlo boasts a better score than the first film (including the standard “Beyond the Blue Horizon”), a better performance by MacDonald and a somewhat less cartoonish leading man in British music hall legend Jack Buchanan. The film also shows some really amazing advances in film technique for this still nascent medium, with the aforementioned “Horizon” number a superb case in point. Instead of a relatively static presentation of MacDonald singing in her train compartment, Lubitsch realizes the filmic potential for a song about the great “out there” and wonderfully opens up the segment by intercutting beautiful traveling shots of the countryside. It’s important to note the thought behind this sort of approach–while the still developing technology didn’t allow for much creativity in filming the actual singers performing their material, there was nothing to stop a genius like Lubitsch from cutting away from the singer to expand the visuals, and it’s just that kind of literal “outside the box” thinking that sets Lubitsch apart from some of the more mundane musical directors of the early talkie era. The fact is he does himself one better in the “Horizon” reprise capping the film, where he adds the sounds of the locomotive in synch with the song itself.

Where the film comes up a bit short is in the substandard plot, a very slight affair involving MacDonald as a runaway bride to be, escaping the foppish Claude Allister, who responds with a hilarious, if completely politically incorrect, song about beating MacDonald into submission should he find her again. She ends up in Monte Carlo, of course, where she becomes involved with Buchanan, first as foils and ultimately as lovers. There’s a forced quality to a lot of the dialogue and plot machinations, including a somewhat bizarre focus on hair (which begs the question–how does MacDonald go from waist-long tresses to a bob and back). What the film lacks in subtlety and that typical Lubitsch wit, however, it makes up for in its confident visuals and MacDonald’s engaging performance. Lending able support is ZaSu Pitts as her long suffering maid.

Overall Grade: 2.5

1932’s One Hour With You reunites Chevalier and MacDonald, this time as a married couple. The plot revolves around MacDonald’s best friend, played by Genevieve Tobin, who, despite being married herself, has cast her frequently roving eye on Chevalier. Tobin’s huband, portrayed by Roland Young, is out for a divorce and actually encourages her shenanigans to help his ultimate goal. MacDonald of course is blithely unaware of Tobin’s desires and soon believes that Chevalier is actually chasing another Parisian mademoiselle. Soon Charlie Ruggles appears as an ardent admirer of MacDonald’s and the ensuing misunderstandings escalate to the point where no one is quite sure of who’s chasing whom.

While One Hour With You never rises to the giddy heights of The Smiling Lieutenant, it’s breezy enough with some clever moments interspersed with a slightly more modern musical palette (one not particularly suited to MacDonald’s florid soprano). Once again Chevalier regularly addresses the audience in various asides, and is joined by MacDonald in this device in the film’s final moment. There are several great bits scattered throughout the film (notably MacDonald’s final scene with Ruggles, with Chevalier egging Ruggles on to admit a nonexistent affair with MacDonald), but there’s a certain unevenness in this film, especially considering the fact that it had the potential to be another knockout, that relegates it to second-tier Lubitsch.

Overall Grade: 3.0

The DVD

Video:
Don’t expect reference quality video in these unrestored early films. All four of the films show occasional (and at times more than occasional) damage, with scratches, abrasion and a missing frame or two, resulting in some jump-cuts in both image and soundtrack. The Love Parade has noticeable flicker and Monte Carlo has some oddly out of focus moments early in the film that make me wonder if some scenes were missing from their best print and were blown up from a 16mm version. The Smiling Lieutenant is the relative sharpest of the bunch, with One Hour With You coming in a close second. The films are all eminently watchable as long as their ages are kept in mind. It’s interesting to note that three of the films were made in a day when 1.33:1 was considered widescreen. Therefore, Monte Carlo is 1.20:1, Love Parade and Lieutenant are 1.21:1, with only Hour approximating modern full frame images at 1.36:1.

Sound:
All of the monaural soundtracks are in fine shape, though the recording technologies of the day sound awfully boxy to modern ears. As is mentioned above, MacDonald’s high soprano work especially is quite hard to decipher.

Extras:
As is the case with most of the Eclipse Series, no real extras are offered, though there are some in-depth liner notes on each of the films contained on the inserts.

Final Thoughts:
With the exception of The Smiling Lieutenant, these films may well not be masterpieces, but they are of such great historical value, both in terms of Lubitsch’s oeuvre and film in general, that they should be seen by anyone with even a passing interest in the development of the American film musical. Due to some of the lackluster elements in some of the films discussed above, these just miss my cutoff threshold for DVD Talk Collector Series, and are as highly recommended as they come.

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San Francisco Chronicle reviewer prefers Jeanette’s Paramount Films!

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Music and Lubitsch

In the years after a rigid Production Code imposed morality on American cinema, occasionally a studio would go begging to the Production Code Administration. The studio would say, “Hey, we have this movie that was made before the Code. Please, please can we rerelease it?” Often the PCA would say no, but sometimes it would say, “OK, sure, but only if you make these cuts.”

Paramount went to the PCA in 1936 with such a request concerning director Ernst Lubitsch’s “The Smiling Lieutenant” (1931) – one of the four films included in the Criterion Collection’s new Eclipse series DVD package “Lubitsch Musicals.” PCA chief Joseph Breen screened the movie and came back suggesting not one or two or three cuts – but 27. Basically, he suggested turning the movie into a short subject. But he was really saying something else. He was asking Paramount how it could waste his time on such licentious, offensive trash when everyone knew it was his job to shield the public from such monstrous, amoral horrors as “The Smiling Lieutenant.”

These days people are bound to feel differently about “The Smiling Lieutenant,” and the three other musicals in the four-DVD set. The films, made from 1929 to 1932, are some of the most urbane – and in some cases risque – that Hollywood produced at that time.

Three of the movies star Maurice Chevalier, a name probably unknown to younger movie fans and misunderstood by even those familiar with him. Today, to the extent that he’s remembered at all in America, he’s an old man singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” on a park bench in 1958’s “Gigi.” In fact, to know Chevalier for that alone would be like knowing Paul McCartney solely for his most recent album. In Chevalier’s prime – captured in this series – he embodied onscreen a character that was libidinous, playful, insinuating and sexually rapacious. He was America’s idea of a Frenchman: charming, fun-loving and sexually insatiable.

With Chevalier onscreen, it was always understood that he has gone to bed with hundreds if not thousands of women and has been faithful to none of them, but no one minds because, hey, he’s French. He is impish, and his behavior borders on ridiculous, but there’s a wise current underneath, an Old World understanding that the pleasures of life are the essence of life. Descriptions can go only so far. Imagine explaining Mae West to someone who has never seen her. You need to see this guy.

“The Smiling Lieutenant” (1931) finds Chevalier at the ideal place in his stardom, established but still flowering. He stars as a lieutenant who is flirting with his mistress (Claudette Colbert) one day as a parade goes by. A frumpy visiting princess (Miriam Hopkins, who is hysterically funny) happens to be passing, thinks he’s making eyes at her and becomes offended, provoking an international incident. What scandalized the censors is that the movie makes a mockery of marriage and celebrates premarital and extramarital sex, which is reinforced by the film’s slightly wistful and sophisticated ending.

Eclipse’s mission is to bundle undiscovered and forgotten classics. There are no commentaries or special features – just the movies, transferred according to Criterion’s rigorous standards and made available at a fraction of the cost of buying them separately. “The Smiling Lieutenant” was unavailable for so long that for years even some eminent film scholars assumed it to be lost. It found its way onto laser disc about 10 years ago, but aside from that and a single screening on Turner Classic Movies in 2003, it has been virtually unavailable

The other star of the Eclipse set is Jeanette MacDonald, another famous name who is remembered for the wrong movies. She is most often associated with the starched, sanitized films she made later with Nelson Eddy at MGM. But working at Paramount in the pre-Code years, MacDonald was sly and sexy – the difference is night and day. In the pre-Code days, she was known as the screen’s “lingerie queen,” and the aim of her movies was to find pretexts for her to stay in her underwear.

She was first teamed with Chevalier in “The Love Parade” (1929), the earliest film in the Eclipse series, an early talkie that has none of the stiltedness of other films from the same year. Working with the same heavy, boxy sound equipment that every other director was saddled with, Lubitsch turned in a gorgeous, flowing, effortlessly graceful film about a young queen who marries a notorious ladies’ man.

Their second collaboration was “One Hour With You,” about a happy couple whose marriage is threatened when the wife’s friend Mitzi (Genevieve Tobin) starts lusting after her best friend’s husband. This prompts Chevalier to sing: “I love Colette (MacDonald)/ I haven’t weakened yet/ But oh, that Mitzi.” When he finally does weaken, he sings, “I didn’t want to do what I did, but I did/ And now what can I do?” And then, looking straight into the camera, he addresses the men in the audience, “I ask you, what would you do? Heh, that’s what I did, too.”

The peculiar entry in the Eclipse series – but welcome for its very strangeness – is “Monte Carlo” (1930), with the young MacDonald, charming as ever, paired with Jack Buchanan, the British stage star remembered by Americans today mainly for playing the zany director in the Fred Astaire film “The Band Wagon” (1953). Buchanan looks like a sneaky servant more than a leading man, and his pairing with MacDonald is downright bizarre. It’s difficult to believe for a second that he’s attracted to her. Even Chevalier could sometimes seem fey, but next to Buchanan, Chevalier was John Wayne.

Chalk “Monte Carlo” up as a likable misfire, a curiosity piece more valuable for its historical value than its entertainment value. That leaves three others, which are good enough to be watched over and over. At a list price of $59.99 (but much cheaper if you do a little shopping), that’s not bad.

After you’ve discovered these films, get hold of “Love Me Tonight” (1932), the third Chevalier and MacDonald pairing and their best film together. It’s a lot like these movies. It has Paramount’s sophistication and gives you the same feeling that the others do, of having entered some benign erotic universe. The only difference is that it wasn’t directed by Lubitsch but by Rouben Mamoulian.

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