Remember "paint by numbers" in the '50's? An art form even less "artistic" than black velvet paintings? "Bells Are Ringing" is paint-by-numbers applied to the Broadway musical. It opened in New York in 1956 and ran for 924 performances, solely on the audience's love of Judy Holliday. But it was already a decade late on opening night. Every tired cliché represents the nadir of its creators.
"Guys and Dolls" did this better in 1950. Sky Masterson's "Luck be a Lady," sung amidst underground pipes beneath Times Square is a better number than the utterly copycat "A Simple Little System" sung on exactly the same set in "Bells." One can understand how "Bells" worked, sort of, on the Broadway stage. The audience was far enough away from the performers not to notice they were "posing" by the numbers instead of acting. "Head down, Judy -- to indicate Ella's sadness!" "Head up, Judy -- and flash that smile to the second balcony -- to indicate Ella's joy!" Every trick in the book was used to disguise that this musical was written for two stars who could neither sing nor dance. Captured on film, unfortunately, the tricks and lack of musical abilities are obvious. (Judy and Sydney Chaplin were in love at the time, and she insisted on his being cast opposite her on the stage.) Jerome Robbins direction and his and co-choreographer Bob Fosse's dance numbers could be performed by your grandmother, so simple and undemanding are they.
The hackneyed plot, already predictable in 1956, contains not one believable situation. But boy is it desperate to be "cute" at every turn.
Miss Holliday was a good actress. Vincente Minnelli a good director. Here, however, everybody forgot they were making a movie instead of a stage play. Holliday mugs almost as pathetically as Betty Hutton in her heyday. Dean Martin clearly couldn't wait to finish this production and move on with his career. At least he gets to sing, "Just in Time." But his laconic approach and Minnelli's lazy staging make that classic almost as forgettable as the rest of the songs in "Bells." Holliday's rendition of, "The Party's Over" suffers from the same pedestrian direction and her overacting robs the song of the haunted quality it has in the hands of, say, Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand.
One is grateful Holliday got the gig. She needed and deserved the money both for the Broadway production and the film.
The film's only value is the preservation of a third-rate Broadway musical as a curiosity piece. It's not a film so much as a record of a stagy relic. It was boring when it opened and it's even more so 50 years later.
"Talkin' Broadway's" review, by Thomas Burke, of the Broadway revival in 2001, noted, "Comden and Green's book has not stood the test of time," and called the show a "dreary mess."
Just like those equally lifeless "paint by number" kits back in the day that promised to turn amateurs into artists. A Broadway musical by the numbers proved equally mechanical, sadly.
"Guys and Dolls" did this better in 1950. Sky Masterson's "Luck be a Lady," sung amidst underground pipes beneath Times Square is a better number than the utterly copycat "A Simple Little System" sung on exactly the same set in "Bells." One can understand how "Bells" worked, sort of, on the Broadway stage. The audience was far enough away from the performers not to notice they were "posing" by the numbers instead of acting. "Head down, Judy -- to indicate Ella's sadness!" "Head up, Judy -- and flash that smile to the second balcony -- to indicate Ella's joy!" Every trick in the book was used to disguise that this musical was written for two stars who could neither sing nor dance. Captured on film, unfortunately, the tricks and lack of musical abilities are obvious. (Judy and Sydney Chaplin were in love at the time, and she insisted on his being cast opposite her on the stage.) Jerome Robbins direction and his and co-choreographer Bob Fosse's dance numbers could be performed by your grandmother, so simple and undemanding are they.
The hackneyed plot, already predictable in 1956, contains not one believable situation. But boy is it desperate to be "cute" at every turn.
Miss Holliday was a good actress. Vincente Minnelli a good director. Here, however, everybody forgot they were making a movie instead of a stage play. Holliday mugs almost as pathetically as Betty Hutton in her heyday. Dean Martin clearly couldn't wait to finish this production and move on with his career. At least he gets to sing, "Just in Time." But his laconic approach and Minnelli's lazy staging make that classic almost as forgettable as the rest of the songs in "Bells." Holliday's rendition of, "The Party's Over" suffers from the same pedestrian direction and her overacting robs the song of the haunted quality it has in the hands of, say, Judy Garland or Barbra Streisand.
One is grateful Holliday got the gig. She needed and deserved the money both for the Broadway production and the film.
The film's only value is the preservation of a third-rate Broadway musical as a curiosity piece. It's not a film so much as a record of a stagy relic. It was boring when it opened and it's even more so 50 years later.
"Talkin' Broadway's" review, by Thomas Burke, of the Broadway revival in 2001, noted, "Comden and Green's book has not stood the test of time," and called the show a "dreary mess."
Just like those equally lifeless "paint by number" kits back in the day that promised to turn amateurs into artists. A Broadway musical by the numbers proved equally mechanical, sadly.