Kritiken

Movies are what you see, or perhaps what you want to see, and queer film readings have always depended on such wishful viewing. As an image of potential same-sex coupling, the end of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is highly symbolic, but once that symbol has revealed itself to you, it’s also impossible to un-see. And who’d want to? Within the vernacular of coded Hollywood filmmaking, it’s a true marriage of equals.

It serves as a testament to Hawks's pliancy that the film which exhibits the least of his auteurist signatures is also one of his greatest. In this glorious paean to female desire, Hawks sticks with tight compositions and consistent two-shots, dispensing his trademark hang-out quality in favor of showcasing the three standout tools at Hawks's disposal: Jack Cole's choreography, Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell's comedic chops, and Technicolor.

What I want to address here is how Gentlemen Prefer Blondes approaches what Alfred Hitchcock called "pure cinema," the conveyance of meaning through the harmonious interplay of all aspects of filmmaking. The presentation of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in front of single-tone backdrops is one example of this. Against the bold color, they seem, literally, like jewels, and this underscores the Monroe character's materialism as well as the overpowering charisma of both women.

Both women give career defining performances here, with Monroe playing up American extravagances to hyperbolic heights, and Russell as the lovelorn straight woman, a term infused with entirely new meaning during the great "Ain't There Anyone Here For Love" number.

Playing up the usual style gap between Monroe's acting and everyone else's, and playing down her often-cited vulnerability, Hawks oversees a remarkable comic performance, with terrific line readings like beat poetry ("Sometimes Mr. Esmond finds it very difficult to say no to me") and bits of business that hint at a bizarre inner life...

The setup could as easily spark a film noir as a musical comedy; the flamboyant use of color, mainly fiery reds and sumptuous purples, masks the potential for blackmail and betrayal.

As electrifying as the opening of any Hollywood movie that comes to mind, this jazzy materialization so catches us by surprise that we are scarcely aware of the scene's fleeting modulations as the dynamic duo makes it through a single chorus. The black curtain changes to a lurid blue, then a loud purple; and the complex flurry of gestures they make toward each other makes the spectator feel assaulted by them as a team as well as individually: a double threat.