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"A necessary part of a complete author's equipment," Shaw says of vulgarity, Frank Tashlin revels in it for the ultimate Fifties fever. Boxy black-and-white dilates into CinemaScope and De Luxe color, "the polite grace of the present day" is promptly drowned out by Little Richard's cyclonic rendition of the title number. The move from slot machines to jukeboxes is a lateral one, the coarse gangster (Edmond O'Brien) favors Walter Scott quotes and Vermeer canvases and self-penned tunes, among them "No Lights on the Christmas Tree, Mother, They're Using the Electric Chair Tonight." The career of the pneumatic mistress (Jayne Mansfield) is his chief concern, "buildin' the dame into a big canary" is a job for the washed-up talent agent (Tom Ewell). (Her voice shatters light bulbs, not a deal-breaker in an industry with lyrics that rhyme "lips" with "potato chips.") A recomposition of Born Yesterday in the key of Richter, cf. Dreams That Money Can Buy, a riot of blazing hues and unruly gyrations. Tashlin sees the brilliance of rock 'n' roll with priceless glimpses of The Platters, Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps, Fats Domino, Abbey Lincoln, Eddie Cochran, and The Treniers, but he also sees how easily it all can be neutered, packaged, and sold. (A vending machine is prominent in the recording studio, a coin gets you an apple.) "Sort of a girl-type gadget," the bombshell melts ice blocks but yearns to be domestic, likewise the underworld mug proves himself happiest when belting out a novelty song to crowds of teenyboppers. Mansfield romps in yellow swimsuits against Cadillac reds and oceanic blues—and they talk about Pop Art. "If she's a girl, then I don't know what my sister is!" A tremendous geyser of inspiration for Lewis, Meyer, Lester, Dante, Zemeckis... Cinematography by Leon Shamroy. With Julie London, Henry Jones, John Emery, Ray Anthony, and Juanita Moore.
--- Fernando F. Croce |