Paramount Pictures' very first VistaVison extravaganza and American's Yuletide staple, Michael Curtiz's WHITE CHRISTMAS, conceived thematically but unofficially as a sequel to Mark Sandrich's HOLIDAY ANN (1942), stars the top-notch crooner Bing Croyesby as Bob Wallace, paired with Danny Kayesby as Bob Wallace, paired with Phil Danny Davis, they are the Wallace-Davis singing duo that makes their mark in NYC.
After ending up with a sisters act Betty and Judy Haynes (Clooney and Vera-Ellen), in Pine Tree, Vermont for the Christmas season, Wallace and Davis buckle down to help revitalize the inn owned by their former commanding officer in WWII, General Waverly (Jagger, embodying the star-spangle wholesomeness without a hitch), by bringing their entire hit musical to the place, a stunt will provide dear reminiscence for the retired general, whose livelihood is at stake if there is not enough patronage in this seemingly snow -less season, miracles, even a meteorological one will occur to save the day, gracing the festive atmospherics with a patriotic congratulation, but most importantly, it is an elderly military man's easily bruised pride that should be treated with kid gloves.
Elsewhere, the quartet's romantic vibes are served as a bare-bones plot devise, especially when Judy gets her wire crossed with Bob, a small setback only to be conveniently ironed out and she arrives at last minute on the scene, but seamlessly performs the centerpieces alongside with her costars as if she has never left and rehearsal is completely hogwash. But plausibility is never of major concern if you have show-tunes galore from Irving Berlin to smooth anyone's ruffled feathers, the titular song is rehashed from HOLIDAY INN by Crosby, who is genial as ever, but the gaping age difference between him and his romance conquest is only accentuated under the VistaVison scrutiny; Clooney is a very fine chanteuse, but not nimble-foot enough to keep up with the rhythm and dramatic chops are significantly wanting here;Kaye is at his best in his buffoonish antics, and Vera-Ellen, the legit terpsichorean among the quartet, suffers from the fact that the bloom is visibly off the rose, and technically her movement is not on the par with Cyd Charisse or Ginger Rogers (for the former's sheer grace and the latter's apparent effortlessness), plus, she has no Astaire by her side to work wonders.
A lavish banquet on both ocular and aural levels, but there is something missing among all the varicolored pageantry and hubbubs, may it be the self-serious message it strives to send, or the lack of chemistry between the leads or charisma oozed from its players , or perhaps, it is not the right season to watch it, its magic diminishes when there is no Christmas tree or snow to facilitate our expectant preparedness.
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