By most standards, this would be one of the least worthy films on our list. Silly story (a gambler courts a gal engaged to a bandleader), vapid dialogue, ordinary direction, acting that Stanislavsky or Scorsese would deem subpar. But it’s a musical, and oh those songs (by Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields), oh those dances (choreographed by Fred Astaire and Hermes Pan). Astaire’s grace, as he gently steered Ginger Rogers across those parquet floors, defined easy elegance and defined the American style in Hollywood’s Golden Age. In the comic duet “Pick Yourself Up,” Fred turns Ginger from an angry competitor into a perfectly synchronous partner. The climactic number, “Never Gonna Dance,” pours courtship, conquest, lovers’ quarrel and loss into a five-minute poem in synchronized motion. With moves whose wit surpassed verbal cleverness, whose passion in a two-step or a twirl was warmer than any kiss, Fred and Ginger were a living metaphor for la belle, la perfectly swell, romance.
TIME hated the movie when it came out (“thoroughly depressing realism” was the best it could say). But Robert DeNiro’s portrait of that increasingly familiar American figure—the lone (psycho) gunman—grows ever scarier and more relevant. The movie’s great twist, in which he becomes a media hero, also engenders deep, dark thoughts about the world we live in. The power of Scorsese’s filmmaking grows ever more punishing with the passage of time.
Sue me, but I like Betty Draper/Francis as a character. The problem is that Mad Men doesn’t. Betty’s not the worst character on the show, but she’s probably the worst-served.