—[Note: This article is illustrated with screen captures taken from YouTube-posted clips from a decent print of The Gang’s All Here. This is a long article.]——
My mother always taught me: “If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right.”
I haven’t always adhered to that advice myself, of course. On the other hand, I’ve never been charged with the responsibility of preserving and disseminating a national treasure.
However, Twentieth Century-Fox, has. And when the time came for the studio to finally shepherd the long-overdue home video release of one of its most unique gems—The Gang’s All Here, the final film and arguably the penultimate masterpiece of choreographer-director Busby Berkeley—they muffed it. Badly.
Of course, apologists will say that films are really not all that important in the grand scheme of things, especially old and fairly obscure ones that appeal to only limited audiences. And, as a for-profit shareholder company, Fox should not be expected to spend lots of time and money on a DVD release that, at best, will only break even.
Still in all, movie studios are unique among businesses, and movies are unique among products. Those products are simultaneously works of art, or eventually become deemed so. They become part of the national and world consciousness. They are collectively revered and loved. They are iconic and beautiful to behold and contemplate—even when they’re imperfect. They are our history, and filmmakers and studios for the last two decades have paid lots of lip service to embracing the notion of film preservation. Film is an art and its artifacts should be saved they say. They have, de facto, assumed at least part of the mantle of culture guardians.
In addition, those same studios have benefited from taxpayer and privately funded film restorations in which they keep the rights to market those films for profit. The reason we can now go to Costco and pick up a $9.99 DVD of the beautiful Library of Congress restoration of the great American masterwork, All Quiet on the Western Front, is because the American people funded it, and that allows the studio to make a little more scratch from an old perennial. Same goes for a lot of other films.
So, yes, I believe the studios owe us some giveback.
Even if the films aren’t restored, there often are superior prints out there, especially of well-established classics—if only the studio takes the extra time to get them.
In the case of The Gang’s All Here, Fox had that chance, but chose to ignore a collector who offered them a good print.
So now you can go to Costco or Borders or wherever and, if you choose, purchase a $15 DVD of a great classic transferred from an inferior print made with a formula that does not preserve the original vibrant Technicolor hues and which is overlaid with a brown haze atop resulting muted colors.
Even the untrained eye must see that things have gone awry with it at the very outset.
Before the credits even begin, the famous Twentieth Century-Fox fanfare blares over an off-white/off-pink overexposed-looking logo. What the hell kinda color is that supposed to be?
For someone who has waited literally decades for this film to come to home video, this is downright heartbreaking to see. If there is any movie that needs to be seen, nay experienced, in its full gaudy Technicolor splendor, this one is it. But, more on that in a minute…
The frustration is made worse by the knowledge that better prints of the film do exist. I’ve seen at least one of them. Both the Fox Movie Channel and the American Movie Classics cable channel have broadcast markedly better prints of the film over the past decade or so. The collector mentioned earlier also has a very good print that has been screened at various retro festivals in the recent past. Any of these would have made for a better issue than what Fox has chosen to offer.
Hell, this dodgy 8-minute clip of the finale on YouTube has better color. A lot better.
So, maybe the folks at Fox took one look at the film and came to the same conclusion about it as film historian David Shipman. In his massive, excellent overview of cinema, The Story of Cinema, Shipman begins his short assessment of The Gang’s All Here thusly: “The film is dire.”
Oddly enough, I agree with him.
The film—a splashy 1943 WWII musical-comedy—is hokey, stiffly acted, stodgily executed, ridiculously plotted and poorly written. James Ellison as the square-jawed “juvenile” male lead is as exciting as plywood. Star Alice Faye, in her last major film, looks bored (as it turns out, she was). The song, “A Journey to a Star” is repeated throughout to the point of distraction. Busby Berkeley, never a great director of comedy, takes bad comic material and makes it worse through lumpen timing. The “Brazilian Bombshell,” Carmen Miranda, struggles with unfunny stereotypical ditsy-Latin comic dialogue. The central romance between Ellison and Faye is never convincing. And when the final musical numbers come, the plot just stops cold, explained away in throwaway fashion by a secondary character.
On the whole, it’s an embarrassment—something you’d be ashamed to be caught watching.
When I first saw it nearly 30 years ago, I thought it was one of the worst films ever made.
Seems I’ve made a pretty bad case for one of my 25 favorite movies.
Except that, for me, The Gang’s All Here is one of the most exquisite movies ever made. It’s not good, yet somehow it’s great.
The weirder it gets, the better it is. And it does get mighty weird, mighty often.
It also contains what I regard as the single greatest moment in cinema history: when Berkeley finally reduces his trademark anonymous chorine clones into abstract, geometrical forms via a dizzying kaleidoscope that fills the screen and is set to ecstatic orchestral music. It is the perfect melding of image and sound; a hair-raising moment, and the granddaddy of abstract, avant-garde cinema.
And it was all done by a showman—not an artist. A showman who ended up making art, and not knowing it.
Enough has been written in books and on the Internet about the film, so I won’t go into too much detail. Yet I can’t resist some observations and at least a mention of some of my favorite moments.
The film opens in complete darkness except for some diagonally positioned, floating bamboo trunks and a tiny, spotlighted human head in the distance crooning in a distinctly Latin accent the Ary Barroso classic, “Brazil.” We notice the head moving closer to us and suddenly are whisked onto a stage representation of New York City where a Brazilian liner is discharging its cargo of tropical produce and passengers, including a fruit-hatted Miranda. As Miranda struts back and forth singing about now-arcane references to the Good Neighbor policy, Berkeley’s camera swoops back and forth from the stage and into the audience for several minutes without an edit in what must have been the longest unbroken tracking shot in movies up to its day, and possibly until Orson Welles surpassed it in the opening of his 1958 film, Touch of Evil.
In the course of events, romantic complications arise, a stuffy millionaire is taught to loosen up, and lots of money is raised for war bonds.
And, of course, chorines make geometrical patterns out of giant bananas, children dressed as adults dance the Polka Dot Polka, a contortionist dancer makes lewd poses with her body and women in blue-green leotards twirl red neon hoops in a fetishistic manner.
As a wartime propaganda tool, the film covers a lot of ground: reminding audiences of the friendly alliance between the USA and Latin America, making light of wartime shortages and thus rendering them tolerable, solidifying the message that gals on the homefront stick with their fighting servicemen, and eases class tensions by showing that the rich do their part for the war effort too. And thus, so should you.
That’s all very interesting. But what I like are moments such as when Berkeley’s camera swoops over and nearly decapitates bobby soxers and white jitterbuggers gathered around the King of Swing, Benny Goodman, as he serviceably croons “Minnie’s in the Money” (a reference to wartime women factory workers). A country that could produce a swing band this powerful was in no way going to lose the war (and a country that half a century later produces Britney Spears… well, let’s just pull the troops out now). Goodman gives a little cock of the head at the end of his first swinging set, as if to say, “Yeah, I know I’m good.”
I love that.
Alice Faye’s buttery foghorn-deep rendition of “No Love, No Nothin’”—another reminder about abstinence for homefront gals—is just about as dreamy as Judy Garland’s incomparable vocal of “The Man I Love” in 1954’s A Star is Born.
Edward Everett Horton and Eugene Pallette are delightful as a sort of Laurel and Hardy set of yin-and-yang millionaires, much better than the material they’re given to work with. And the same goes for lanky Charlotte Greenwood as Mrs. Potter, who perturbs her hubby with an incredible display of double-jointed leg maneuvers.
Goodman and Miranda swinging out to “Paducah” (“just a pretty little city in Kentucky, but to me it rhymes with ‘lucky,’ when I’m looking into two blue eyes”) is so bad it’s great.
Kitschy, campy, a magnet for drag queens—call it what you will—The Gang’s All Here is the best musical Twentieth Century Fox ever made. Long after the studio’s once popular (and more grounded) wartime Betty Grable color musicals have been forgotten, there will be a cult that still reveres the psychedelic Berkeley film.
For many reasons that seem obvious to me—for what it represents stylistically and what it says about wartime America—The Gang’s All Here should long ago have been inducted into the National Film Registry. It still awaits that long overdue honor as of April 2007.
Perhaps if it had, the film would have been given the respect and restoration it is due from its studio.
On DVD the film has been issued as a stand-alone item and as part of a four-disc “Alice Faye Collection” box. Oddly enough, the three other (and artistically lesser) films in the box all show the care that Fox has given to most of its recent catalog classics DVD releases. (And besides looking good, the black-and-white biopic Lillian Russell is a good film in its own right). The print of That Night in Rio in the set shows what Technicolor is supposed to look like. But who the hell has been waiting 20 years for That Night in Rio to come out on video? Not me. So, of course, that’s the one that looks right. (And so they all do too in Warner’s superb Busby Berkeley Collection DVD box).
Like any studio, Fox is more concerned with the here and now—too busy pushing the latest $100+ million blockbuster from Tom Cruise or J-Lo, etc., to worry about any of this.
Still, the reviews are out, and, apart from a few apologists, they are not good.
In its assessment, DVDBeaver—which has accurate screen caps of the DVD—says flat out that The Gang’s All Here needs to be redone.
As some have noted, the print is clear and sharp. Which is true; I cannot deny it. And the colors are not horrible, per se, they’re just more muted. One online movie forum member speculated that the person overseeing the transfer may have tried to make the film more “modern” and acceptable for contemporary viewers by toning down the film’s outrageous colors.
If that was the case, in doing so a lot of the art of the movie has been lost.
That’s because a movie that depends so largely on style to succeed requires that every element that goes into that style be preserved and presented. Technicolor, accurately rendered, is a key, essential element in The Gang’s All Here.
Three-color Technicolor, a now-lost technology that only existed in Hollywood for a short 20 years, is a lost art. Anything made with that technology is, in itself, a potentially lost work of art. When a print is made that does not represent that lost art as close to the original as possible, the film can be said to be, to some degree, “lost.”
In the case of The Gang’s All Here, style is everything. Color is essential to that style. And not just any color, but Technicolor—a Technicolor that is not reprocessed and muted with a grainy brown haze. A Technicolor that glows; a color where we can see not only that Carmen Miranda is wearing a tutti-frutti hat, but that that hat has a saturated silver nitrate color aura around it. A color so bright and saturated that it literally bursts outside its boundaries; like a kid whose Crayola has strayed over the lines.
The cluelessness about the importance of color, and particular color processes, may have something to do with the overemphasis that too many critics, studios and young filmmakers put on narrative concerns over style and other “intangible” aesthetics in movies.
The equation of movie art with narrative credibility informs most of what is understood to mean “good movies.” In that view, a good movie is like a good book. A good movie tells a good story, is well acted and has something “important” to say, a message. Movies become a form of picturized literature.
It might be a good story, well filmed, but that don’t make it art.
In my view of aesthetics, a movie like The Gang’s All Here, which is incompetent in nearly every way as regards credible narrative, is more a work of art than something like, say, In the Bedroom, which was hailed by critics but which, ultimately, is just a competent picturization of a short-story narrative.
In The Gang’s All Here, Berkeley puts something on the screen that defies repetition; something that could only come from his own warped mind. It is unique in ways that movies that get on annual top 10 best lists are not.
So when someone at Fox transferred the movie to DVD, they likely didn’t put much thought into the importance of the color. The picture’s clear enough and the story can be followed. Print it and box it up and get it out to those grandmothers at Costco. They’re the only ones who are gonna buy an Alice Faye movie anyway. Oh, and maybe some gay guys, too.
But I’m not a gay guy or a grandmother. I’m just a 40-ish straight male concerned about the preservation of our heritage. And I sure would like to be able to immerse myself in the full glory of one of my favorite movies.
C’mon, Fox, have another go at it and give it the royal treatment: A double-disc special edition with a color-restored print and all the extras. And slap $50 on it and I’ll buy it in a New York minute. I’d buy two copies, maybe three. I’ll buy copies for people I love—and hate.
But if you won’t redo it for me, Fox, for pity’s sake do it in memory of Carmen Miranda.
And I won’t poo-poo Paducah anymore—or Twentieth Century-Fox.