I suppose we could have suspected that great disappointments lie around like bombs just like we’re surprised by nifty things lying around in the mundane, but I would never have suspected An American In Paris to be one of those. Crap. I was a French Major, for Heaven’s sake and I love Gershwin. Still do. But at least give me this one.
It was made in 1951. I was 9. My dad had kind of a fascination with the weird talent and craziness of Oscar Levant. It won like six Oscars. And I was lying abed, feverish and sick and watching educational TV! And I hated it!
The big ole production number towards the end was magnificent. It went on forever and if I could have the light blue toe shoes that Leslie Caron wore, I would die happy, but lots of the dancy numbers with just Kelly when he was dancing on the piano were kinda gay, quite frankly, and the story line was pretty trite. Yup. I said it here. Maybe I was hallucinating. And know what? I wish Leslie Caron had been taller and skinnier and prettier.
There now. I said it. And you can’t make me take it back. Hollywood has ruined me.