Maybe I'm overrating this; it's just a pretty-good adaptation of a pretty-good boulevard comedy that fit snugly into the theatergoing atmosphere of 1958. But viewed from this advanced vantage point, it conjures up a long-lost world that looks incredibly seductive. The Paramount mountain appears, Alfred Newman's lush scoring begins, some gorgeous still photos of 1961 San Francisco grace the credits, and we're off to an appetizing array of sophisticated bon mots, expert comic playing, and the most glamorous sets and costumes this side of "Pillow Talk." Astaire, not just playing Astaire and genuinely acting, oozes charm and regret as the long-neglectful father of Debbie Reynolds (who does overplay a bit), returning to San Francisco to witness her marriage to Tab Hunter, who's surprisingly excellent. Ex-wife Lilli Palmer, now married to gruff Gary Merrill, eyes her ex's intervention with well-justified suspicion, while dad Charlie Ruggles makes caustic remarks and quaffs a lot of bourbon. It's a very white world, and the casual racism thrown at the well-played Japanese servant becomes wearying, but it's such and eyeful and earful, and Astaire's so marvelous, you end up loving it. And when he dances a few steps with Reynolds and Palmer, you think, why on earth didn't they give him a whole number.
Review of The Pleasure of His Company
