Or, a turkey returns
How could the star, director, producer, and studio behind The Sound of Music reunite for another musical and go wrong? It’s not an easy accomplishment, but they did — spectacularly. With 1968’s Star!, 20th Century-Fox’s $14 million investment evaporated without a trace. Now it’s back as a new, spruced-up DVD, here to prove that dinosaurs aren’t extinct.
In the 1960s, 20th Century-Fox was a studio of changing fortunes. Cleopatra may have spelled the end had not The Sound of Music come along. While the unbelievable box-office of the latter counterbalanced the unbelievable cost of the former, it indirectly doomed other studios. Everyone, it seemed, went looking for the next Sound of Music. What they found, instead, was the sound of nothing. Witness the long, sad procession of musical misfires produced in the late 1960s after The Sound of Music became the highest-grossing film in history: Doctor Doolittle, Camelot, Finian’s Rainbow, Sweet Charity, Paint Your Wagon, Hello, Dolly!, and Goodbye, Mr. Chips.
The unsagacious makers of Star! believed that Andrews on the marquee would pull in a crowd no matter what she was in. It didn’t bother them that the only Americans who knew of Gertrude Lawrence were the champions of bygone theater. Neither were they bothered with the film-worthiness of her life. Lawrence’s self-inflicted miseries can’t compare to nuns, Nazis, the Austrian Alps, and singing children, particularly when they are stretched like taffy to the untenable length of 176 minutes. In further bad judgment, inherently dramatic events, like a pair of world wars, are treated in Star! as inconveniences on par with traffic jams.
Star! may amuse the disciples of camp. The male support is borderline perverse. Daniel Massey offers a droll interpretation of Noël Coward, but all references to his sexuality are merely implied. Robert Reed, Mr. Mike Brady himself, stops by to enter the suitor competition. Richard Crenna shows up in the wheezing last third of the movie to give Gertie the tongue lashing we long to hear. All roles are profoundly underwritten, so it’s the sometimes exquisite production values that must take up the slack. Ah, those costumes — so excessive, so vulgar, so movie musical with runaway budget. There isn’t a stitch of fabric that looks like it came from a human being’s closet and not the wardrobe trailer. And you’re sure to titter at the scene of our heroine hospitalized for nervous exhaustion in perfect hair and make-up.
The real appeal of Star!, camp or otherwise, rests with its 17 splashy stage-bound production numbers. Friends of Julie are sure to rejoice at the preservation of her interpretations of Cole Porter, Kurt Weill, George Gershwin, Al Jolson, Noël Coward, and Buddy DeSylva. Some numbers (“Burlington Bertie”) are quite good, but just as many of them are suffocating. “The Saga of Jenny” is a smear of acrobats and sequins, while “Limehouse Blues” asks Andrews to do some Cyd Charisse-style musical vamping. She comes off more like Hayley Mills doing Lulu in Hollywood.
Any Monday morning quarterbacking on the fate of Star! must consider the Julie Andrews factor. She’s in every scene; Star! is nothing if not a vehicle for her talents. But I don’t think she’s ever understood that the public wants her typecast as a beneficent, starched woman with at least two children in tow. Let’s face it, the goodwill she still enjoys is due almost entirely to Mary Poppins and The Sound of Music. Efforts to expand her range have only revealed her limitations. She contributed mightily to the nadir of Alfred Hitchcock’s career with her vacant performance in Torn Curtain. She wasn’t a convincing man for one second in Victor/Victoria. Her breast baring in S.O.B. and femme fataling in Darling Lili were simply embarrassing. In Star! she’s gauche, petulant, and ego-driven. She acts in primary colors, giving idiotically exasperated reactions to everything from a ringing telephone to a badminton birdie. And let us not use musical fatigue as the easy answer to Star!‘s failure. Oliver! was that year’s Best Picture winner, proving that Exclamatory! Musicals! Weren’t Kaput! Until Hello, Dolly! came along the following year. Funny Girl opened two months after Star! came and went, and audiences flocked to see a new kind of singer-musical sensation. (If you don’t know who that was, why are you reading this article?) Poor Andrews went from number-one favorite to leper in four short years. It would be another 12 years before anyone but her husband, director Blake Edwards, would cast her in a feature film.