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Dolores del Rio,
Showman Jerry Travers is working for producer Horace Hardwick in London. Jerry demonstrates his new dance steps late one night in Horace's hotel, much to the annoyance of sleeping Dale Tremont below. She goes upstairs to complain and the two are immediately attracted to each other. Complications arise when Dale mistakes Jerry for Horace. Written by
Allan Scott disliked working with Ginger Rogers. He preferred to write for "stage actresses who took their art seriously," such as Claudette Colbert or Greer Garson, and would rewrite to accommodate their ideas and concerns. He recalled, "There was a time with Ginger, on the other hand, where it got to be a joke. She would say, 'There's something radically wrong.' And you had to go down and see what you could do." What Scott usually found was that Rogers was having trouble with a line simply because she didn't get it, hadn't studied it, and she'd usually been out "dancing and whatnot" the night before. Scott used the term "radically wrong" to refer to Ginger for some time. See more »
When Jerry is dancing, it appears that the main room in Horace's Suite is directly over the bedroom of the downstairs suite of Dale. Most hotels are built to an identical pattern on each floor. It is more economical that way. So for the dancing to wake Dale, Jerry should be dancing in one of the bedrooms, especially as his dancing appears to dislodge a ceiling tile in Dale's Suite. See more »
When whipping up the froth of a musical comedy most creators and commentators forget that fateful second word . . . COMEDY. Not to take away from Astaire & Rogers' beautiful balletic grace, but no one ever gave more comedy more modestly yet more professionally than Edward Everett Horton. His triple-barreled name alone suggests haughty dignity and sniffing puritanism, and his role in this film, as in so many others, gives him ample scope to screw up his mouth in petty disdain, look aghast at social blunders, and sputter in disbelief over the foibles of others while generously ignoring his own idiocies. Horton is a reactor, one which boosts a fairly pedestrian plot to the Moon & beyond. Like Margret DuMont with the Marx Brothers, there is something about the pernickity Horton that begs us to tilt his top hat and fling a banana peel his way just for the delightful reaction we are sure of getting. Perplexed or chagrined, the hatchet-faced Horton is a monument to the lost art of supporting clown -- those dumb bunnies and prissy busybodies that used to inhabit movies and give them life & breath even when the big-shot stars were off the screen. Horton had impeccable timing in delivering a line or flashing a double-take -- you feel he could just as easily count the nano-seconds between the neutron pulses of an atom. If he seems to intrude too much into the musical numbers of this movie it's simply because the director/editor must have been overly fond of his coy mugging. I recommend that music lovers rewatch this film and concentrate on Edward Everett Horton. Your attention will be well-rewarded with deep chuckles and an abiding affection for this New England zany.
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