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"Seeing all these girls gives me a lot of ideas," the Busby Berkeley credo. The effect of those newfangled talkies on theatrical revues, "it's a fad," the impresario (James Cagney) has to up the ante. Movies need curtain-raisers so live prologues are provided, the crazier the better. A headache is just another form of inspiration, a feline hodgepodge is concocted five decades ahead of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, with it comes a warning from the faithful secretary (Joan Blondell): "If you don't let up, you're gonna meow yourself into a padded cell." Portrait of the artist, besieged by harried choreographer (Frank McHugh), scatterbrained investor (Ruth Donnelly), ninny censor (Hugh Herbert), gold-digging spy (Claire Dodd) and blackmailing ex-wife (Renee Whitney). The kept tenor (Dick Powell) graduates to manager, the receptionist (Ruby Keeler) doffs her specs and joins the hoofing force. The chiseling producers (Guy Kibbee, Arthur Hohl) meanwhile sweat over a tycoon's approval: "He wouldn't sign if we gave him Garbo on roller skates!" Persistence of vision, "a certain rhythm." Facing rivals and deadlines, Berkeley's surrogate fights the only way he knows, by sharing his hallucinations. "Honeymoon Hotel" multiplies the vibrating cross-section screens of "Shuffle Off to Buffalo" (42nd Street) for the benefit of Lewis (The Ladies Man) and Godard (Tout va bien). "By a Waterfall" begins on a stagy knoll and explodes into a gargantuan tank full of nymphs, an aquatic shimmer building to a rotating tower of wet flesh. And "Shanghai Lil" is a slam-bang Sternberg send-up, with wharf dive, opium den and marching salute illuminated by Cagney's vaudeville electricity. "Hey, you jumped ship. Now what's your game?" "Oh, just looking for a dame." From here to 8½ is Fellini's trick. With Paul Porcasi, Gordon Westcott, Barbara Rogers, Philip Faversham, Herman Bing, and Billy Barty. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |