Fred Astaire is a joy to watch, as expected. The surprise is gorgeous Cyd Charisse with wasp waist and legs that go on forever. Some wonderful laughs provided by the antics of Jack Buchanan. Some great songs.
Some musicals grab you by the lapels and insist you have a wonderful time. This one kept asking me to admire the workmanship while it faffed about deciding what it wanted to be. The real tease is the Faust musical: that pitch sounds fantastic, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time wishing the film would commit instead of pivoting to safer, shinier material.
A lot of the numbers feel like they’re happening near the story rather than inside it. “That’s Entertainment!” is the one moment that actually earns its place, though I kept humming The Jam’s version afterwards like some weird Pavlovian earworm, as if my brain was trying to improve the experience in post.
The stagecraft is undeniable. That made-to-measure New York is ridiculously detailed, and the film knows it: “more scenery than Yellowstone Park”, indeed.
In the end I stopped resisting and let it wash over me: charming in patches, immaculate to look at, oddly hard to care about.