Gloriously witty adaptation of the Broadway musical about Professor Henry Higgins, who takes a bet from Colonel Pickering that he can transform unrefined, dirty Cockney flower girl Eliza Doolittle into a lady, and fool everyone into thinking she really is one, too! He does, and thus young aristocrat Freddy Eynsford-Hill falls madly in love with her. But when Higgins takes all the credit and forgets to acknowledge her efforts, Eliza angrily leaves him for Freddy, and suddenly Higgins realizes he's grown accustomed to her face and can't really live without it. Written by
George Cukor and Cecil Beaton did not get along during filming. Cukor complained that Beaton tried to take credit for other people's work. He also resented the fact that Beaton's presence prevented him from hiring his usual color consultant, photographer George Hoyningen-Huene. For his part, Beaton considered Cukor vulgar and resented his domineering character. Some observers suggested that the closeted Cukor was put off by Beaton's more flamboyant homosexuality. There were even rumors that Beaton had once stolen a man from the director. Their biggest on-set argument was over Beaton's assignment to photograph the cast. Cukor felt that his photography was slowing down production and told him to stop taking shots on the set. Then he complained that posing for the portraits was overworking the actors. Yet Beaton persisted in taking pictures. After some on-set blow-ups, Cukor complained to Warner, and Beaton stopped coming to the set. See more »
When Higgins comes home after the Grand Ball, he takes off his shoes and holds a cigar in one hand which repeatedly changes direction between shots. See more »
[sounds from crowd, occasionally a word or phrase, indistinct and mostly not associated with a character]
Don't just stand there, Freddy, go and find a cab.
All right, I'll get it, I'll get it.
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In the posters, playbills and the original cast album for the stage version of "My Fair Lady", the credits always read "based on Bernard Shaw's 'Pygmalion' ", letting the audience know what play "My Fair Lady" was actually adapted from. The movie credits simply read "from a play by Bernard Shaw". See more »
Now, what do we call someone who judges other human souls by what clothes they wear, whether their subjects and verbs agree, who they know and what their houses look like? That is right: a shallow, pretentious, snobby philistine. What bothers me is I have to explain this. See, I do not care how many books they put behind him it no more makes him an intellectual then rows of pizza boxes behind me transform me into spaghetti. The man is an misogynistic, pedantic, arrogant fool. Two openly women hating songs that if released today would result in the studio be sued into penury. Gee, think of all the losers who would fail his criteria: Gandhi, Christ, Buddha, Beethoven, Einstein, Edison, you know a bunch of losers according to Higgins. Did everyone enjoy seeing Eliza stalked by that fop in the top hat to the tune: On The Street Where I Get Arrested? There also is the hilarious song about abandoning your wife and children, and being a worthless, drunken bum your whole life. See, words mean things, occasionally get the wax out of your ears and open the dictionary. I swear these imbeciles would adore We Stole Your Money, Idiots, if it came with a catchy tune with lots of woodwinds.
You are kidding me; those painted up fossils, barely conscious, dressed up like draperies with bad hats; those are your paragons you aspire to be? Please, pick other role modes. Did you hear their conversation, how stimulating!! They are and they always shall be the vapid, brainless fops and dames who evoke laughter in all who behold them. I have a brother like this; I do not speak to him, what an embarrassment! Life is not a game of dress up; please, grow the hell up and accomplish something of merit. No, Eliza if we dropped you in that lap of luxury you lust for you would be bored out your mind in two hours. As Arthur Schopenhauer teaches life is a pendulum between need and boredom. All wealth is internal; it cannot be made material and then interiorized, please. No, It Wouldn't Be Lovely. The movie is worthwhile, it teaches one great lesson: How Not To Be.
Look at our teacher, tied to his mom's apron, apparently still breast feeding, lecturing others about his vapid norms of compensation so he can feel better about being such an effeminate, little boy. This is your model: who would heed a word this fool babbled? What because he is wealthy? The intelligence to have or make money is quite separate from knowing what is of value and what is worthless, that is the purview of philosophy. The movie is long beyond belief; it feels like a whole day. You will be submerged in the world of vacuous, superficial snobs who aspire to speak as if they have suffered massive strokes and dress like lampshades. My header captures them quintessentially; existential cotton candy, it evaporates in your mouth. There is nothing there but an empty stage show of compensation for internal poverty.
If you enjoy having an emaciated, bad acting, sack of bones screech out her vowels whilst an effeminate, pedantic, pretentious mama's boy trains her to resemble a walking drapery; hey, congratulations you have found your movie. Believe it or not existential moral evaluation of other human beings should be predicated upon their deeds not their dress or speech. Q.E.D.
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