Onstage, "Lady in the Dark" was the most groundbreaking musical of the 1940s. It was structured as a straight play about Liza Elliot, a serious, austere fashion editor who begins cracking up on the job. In sessions with her psychoanalyst, she recalls three dreams -- in which the serious drama bursts into lavish complex musical numbers featuring Liza as a singer/dancer who is the epitome of musical comedy glamour (so much so that Vincente Minnelli and Judy Garland named their daughter after this part).
On Broadway, Gertrude Lawrence used her crisp English accent and homely appearance to sketch out the editor, and her personal magnetism and wobbly soprano to put over the dreamer. This role should have been a snap for Ginger Rogers, who had not only proved herself the most talented woman performer in musicals of the 30's (including another psychoanalytical musical, "Carefree"), but also won an Oscar as a straight dramatic actress. And so she snapped it up, putting a clause in her contract with Paramount that the musical be bought for her. A much warmer, more attractive performer than Gertrude Lawrence, she could and should have had a triumph in this part.
As the saying goes: sadly, no.
First Rogers fell afoul of Paramount studio chief Buddy deSylva, a minor songwriter and crude vulgarian, who felt "forced" to produce the movie. DeSylva also hated the show's composer Kurt Weill and, perhaps in retaliation toward both Rogers and Weill, gutted virtually the entire score and thus the heart of the show. Director Mitchell Leisen, a rather nasty and self-loathing character, got off on the wrong foot with Rogers even before shooting. Leisen, who Billy Wilder called "a window dresser," looked down his nose at Rogers, pumped up the script's hatred of women, and put his energy into mink, sequins, gaudy hats, dry ice, and lots and lots of boys in tights.
And so one of Broadway's finest musicals became a gaudy Technicolor fashion parade interspersed with scenes of unbelievably unpleasant misogyny. With virtually no musical numbers to perform (including "My Ship," the song which holds the key to Liza's subconscious), and with a director who disrespected and humiliated her on the set, Rogers didn't stand a chance. Despite her skill and effectiveness in some moments, she comes off as cold and hard in the dramatic scenes and garishly overemphatic in the dreams. Meanwhile, her character endures two hours worth of condescension and hostility. On first viewing it's hard to even look at her fierce and unhappy performance, though if you can stand to watch the movie a few times, her work actually begins to look like a triumph against the odds.
As Martin Scorcese (a fan of this film) points out, the climax comes in the one musical number to survive intact from Broadway. The band strikes up "The Saga of Jenny," and Rogers opens up her skirt to reveal the most gorgeous pair of legs in movie history. As she shimmies her hips a couple of times, we get a taste of the audacity and exhilaration this show should be about. However, the famous jewel-encrusted mink skirt (designed by Leisen, of course) weighed 35 pounds and Rogers had to hold it up through the entire number; meanwhile, her high heels kept getting stuck in the hemp rug he laid down. She still manages to pull it off, but just barely. In a Lux Radio broadcast of "Lady" a year later, she also performed a sweet and delicate reprise of "My Ship." Her original, performed a capella in counterpoint to "Ain't She Sweet," and then hacked out of the movie by deSylva, is presumably decomposing in a Paramount vault somewhere in Hollywood. Ginger Rogers' career lasted another 40 years or so, but if you love her like I do, you have to deeply regret this movie -- the greatest and most unhappily lost opportunity of her career.
On Broadway, Gertrude Lawrence used her crisp English accent and homely appearance to sketch out the editor, and her personal magnetism and wobbly soprano to put over the dreamer. This role should have been a snap for Ginger Rogers, who had not only proved herself the most talented woman performer in musicals of the 30's (including another psychoanalytical musical, "Carefree"), but also won an Oscar as a straight dramatic actress. And so she snapped it up, putting a clause in her contract with Paramount that the musical be bought for her. A much warmer, more attractive performer than Gertrude Lawrence, she could and should have had a triumph in this part.
As the saying goes: sadly, no.
First Rogers fell afoul of Paramount studio chief Buddy deSylva, a minor songwriter and crude vulgarian, who felt "forced" to produce the movie. DeSylva also hated the show's composer Kurt Weill and, perhaps in retaliation toward both Rogers and Weill, gutted virtually the entire score and thus the heart of the show. Director Mitchell Leisen, a rather nasty and self-loathing character, got off on the wrong foot with Rogers even before shooting. Leisen, who Billy Wilder called "a window dresser," looked down his nose at Rogers, pumped up the script's hatred of women, and put his energy into mink, sequins, gaudy hats, dry ice, and lots and lots of boys in tights.
And so one of Broadway's finest musicals became a gaudy Technicolor fashion parade interspersed with scenes of unbelievably unpleasant misogyny. With virtually no musical numbers to perform (including "My Ship," the song which holds the key to Liza's subconscious), and with a director who disrespected and humiliated her on the set, Rogers didn't stand a chance. Despite her skill and effectiveness in some moments, she comes off as cold and hard in the dramatic scenes and garishly overemphatic in the dreams. Meanwhile, her character endures two hours worth of condescension and hostility. On first viewing it's hard to even look at her fierce and unhappy performance, though if you can stand to watch the movie a few times, her work actually begins to look like a triumph against the odds.
As Martin Scorcese (a fan of this film) points out, the climax comes in the one musical number to survive intact from Broadway. The band strikes up "The Saga of Jenny," and Rogers opens up her skirt to reveal the most gorgeous pair of legs in movie history. As she shimmies her hips a couple of times, we get a taste of the audacity and exhilaration this show should be about. However, the famous jewel-encrusted mink skirt (designed by Leisen, of course) weighed 35 pounds and Rogers had to hold it up through the entire number; meanwhile, her high heels kept getting stuck in the hemp rug he laid down. She still manages to pull it off, but just barely. In a Lux Radio broadcast of "Lady" a year later, she also performed a sweet and delicate reprise of "My Ship." Her original, performed a capella in counterpoint to "Ain't She Sweet," and then hacked out of the movie by deSylva, is presumably decomposing in a Paramount vault somewhere in Hollywood. Ginger Rogers' career lasted another 40 years or so, but if you love her like I do, you have to deeply regret this movie -- the greatest and most unhappily lost opportunity of her career.