Unusual title, unusual film. Kirk Douglas is as intense as ever in this early 50's drama, centring on a young musician's obsessive interest in his musical career and deeper than that it seems, the music itself. The movie's back-to-front narrative, prologued and epilogued by the great songwriter Hoagy Carmichael, here in a prominent acting role too, echoes the construction of the later and superior Douglas film "The Bad and The Beautiful".
While there's much to admire, particularly in the cinematography (wonderful roomy exteriors, ditto the deserted New York street scenes), reflecting the ever-efficient Curtiz's experienced knack of unflashy direction, just put the camera in the right spot most of the time and tell the story and quality acting from Douglas, Day and Carmichael in particular, still I found the film lacking that certain something that would elevate it to the top-drawer.
Maybe it's the unlikely, unbelievable almost Faustian contract that Douglas seems to make with his music, distancing himself from real contact with friends, colleagues and even potential lovers like the good-hearted singer played well here by Doris Day, before she got too wholesome and sanitised. I also found it hard to accept that the steely Douglas would fall apart as quickly and dramatically as he does over the pseudo-intellectual iceberg that is Lauren Bacall. I'd also contend there was just a bit too much music in the film too, (not being a jazz fan obviously didn't help) as I felt it held up the drama somewhat, plus it just seemed the dialogue could have benefited from being sharper and pithier throughout. The pat ending, happy of course, delivered in a blink and you'd miss it to-camera summary by Carmichael not only seems rushed and forced, it's plain wrong - Douglas' anti-hero should have continued on the road to self-destruction in keeping with the preceding narrative tow of the film.
And what to make of Lauren Bacall's character...? Her almost mannish closet-gay persona certainly seems risqué for the times and an unnecessary contrivance. I've read in a film guide too of the use of Douglas' trumpet-playing failings as a metaphor for impotence, which I must admit I didn't pick up on myself, but these themes do I feel contribute to an overall strange coldness, or is that cold strangeness, at the heart of this film which I found off-putting and certainly stopped me warming to it as much as I could or should have.
While there's much to admire, particularly in the cinematography (wonderful roomy exteriors, ditto the deserted New York street scenes), reflecting the ever-efficient Curtiz's experienced knack of unflashy direction, just put the camera in the right spot most of the time and tell the story and quality acting from Douglas, Day and Carmichael in particular, still I found the film lacking that certain something that would elevate it to the top-drawer.
Maybe it's the unlikely, unbelievable almost Faustian contract that Douglas seems to make with his music, distancing himself from real contact with friends, colleagues and even potential lovers like the good-hearted singer played well here by Doris Day, before she got too wholesome and sanitised. I also found it hard to accept that the steely Douglas would fall apart as quickly and dramatically as he does over the pseudo-intellectual iceberg that is Lauren Bacall. I'd also contend there was just a bit too much music in the film too, (not being a jazz fan obviously didn't help) as I felt it held up the drama somewhat, plus it just seemed the dialogue could have benefited from being sharper and pithier throughout. The pat ending, happy of course, delivered in a blink and you'd miss it to-camera summary by Carmichael not only seems rushed and forced, it's plain wrong - Douglas' anti-hero should have continued on the road to self-destruction in keeping with the preceding narrative tow of the film.
And what to make of Lauren Bacall's character...? Her almost mannish closet-gay persona certainly seems risqué for the times and an unnecessary contrivance. I've read in a film guide too of the use of Douglas' trumpet-playing failings as a metaphor for impotence, which I must admit I didn't pick up on myself, but these themes do I feel contribute to an overall strange coldness, or is that cold strangeness, at the heart of this film which I found off-putting and certainly stopped me warming to it as much as I could or should have.