You ever go to a dinner party where the guests are stunning, the cocktails are cold, and the conversation is… suspiciously inconsistent? That’s Les Girls, George Cukor’s glitzy 1957 musical comedy where the sequins shine, the truth doesn’t, and everyone’s memory of the evening is just a little off. This was MGM’s attempt at staying classy in an era when the musical was slipping into self-parody, and instead of champagne, they served us a lukewarm martini with a lipstick-smudged rim.
Truth, Memory, and a Studio in Denial
The story started with a simple article in The Atlantic—a wistful recollection from Constance Tomkinson about her cabaret days in Paris. Screenwriter Vera Caspary, never one to let nostalgia go un-complicated, transformed the memoir into a courtroom tangle about the unreliability of memory and the fragility of reputation. Then John Patrick, an Oscar-winner for Teahouse of the August Moon, polished the script into something approximating farce—but instead of razor-sharp satire, we got a swirl of shrug-worthy revelations and confused characters in glittery bodices.
Meanwhile, producer Sol C. Siegel and director George Cukor had dreams of on-location filming across Europe—Paris! Lisbon! Moscow!—but MGM’s finance department grounded them quicker than you can say “studio austerity.” So we’re left with soundstage Paris, which isn’t fooling anyone, and backdrops that look like Josephine Baker might’ve tripped over them in 1930.
And who else to bless this confusion with music than Cole Porter? The film would be his final complete film score and, honestly, it shows. While Porter’s lyrics still sizzle with wordplay and innuendo, they often feel stitched together from cocktail napkins left over from Kiss Me, Kate. There’s no “Begin the Beguine” magic here—more like “Begin the Litigation.”
A Revue of Missed Chances and Surprise Deliveries
Les Girls also plays like a musical chairs of mid-century leading ladies. Originally, the roles were meant for a global glamor trifecta: Cyd Charisse (American), Leslie Caron (French), and Kay Kendall (British). But Charisse ditched the project for Silk Stockings—because apparently one musical with questionable sexual politics was enough for her that year. Mitzi Gaynor, all cheerful tap and no menace, stepped in.
Then Caron bailed, leading to the film debut of Finnish ballerina Taina Elg, who had just given birth when she landed the role of Angele. Oh, and Kendall? She wavered on signing, too, but eventually stayed. That meant Elg was tested for both Kendall and Caron’s roles before finally landing one—proving that in MGM musicals, talent was less important than availability and a decent waistline.
Gene Kelly, the MGM warhorse himself, was also ready to clock out. Les Girls marked the end of his contract with the studio, and the weariness shows. He dances like a man who knows it’s all ending—elegantly, efficiently, but without the revolutionary spark that lit An American in Paris or Singin’ in the Rain. His Barry Nichols is charming but oily, a man who lies to women for their own good and still gets a curtain call. That Joy forgives him at the end says less about romance and more about the screenwriter needing to wrap this thing up.
Rashomon in Rhinestones
The film’s central conceit—that memory is unreliable and everyone lies when love and fame are involved—is clever in theory. In practice, it’s a confusing carousel of flashbacks, costume changes, and contradictory narration that makes Rashomon look like an episode of Judge Judy. Sybil writes a scandalous memoir. Angele sues her. Both tell opposing tales about who bedded Barry and who passed out drunk next to a gas leak.
Enter Barry with the “truth,” which, unsurprisingly, paints him as the noble puppet master of women’s destinies. He confesses he faked a heart condition to get the girls to quit dancing so their men could marry them. Joy finds him appalling—until she doesn’t. The film ends with a wink and a shrug, as if everyone agrees that the past is best left in soft focus, with a big musical number behind it.
Champagne Dreams, Soda Water Returns
Critically, Les Girls did just fine. It won the Academy Award for Best Costume Design (Orry-Kelly’s frocks do all the heavy lifting) and picked up two more Oscar nods for sound and art direction. It also snagged a Golden Globe for Best Musical or Comedy, though that might have been a nod to nostalgia more than substance. Kay Kendall and Taina Elg shared a Best Actress win, which feels like an award given just for surviving the rewrites and corsets.
Financially? Not so great. Despite respectable grosses—$2.4 million domestically, $1.45 million overseas—the bloated production budget left MGM nursing a $1.6 million loss. Apparently, even dressing Gene Kelly in silk smoking jackets doesn’t guarantee ROI. Today, the film floats in that weird bubble of cult nostalgia, beloved by costume enthusiasts and musical completists but rarely watched by actual audiences. A proposed sequel, Les Boys, never happened (a mercy, perhaps), though it did spawn a short-lived NBC sitcom, Harry’s Girls, proving even mediocrity can have long legs if they’re in fishnets.
A Last Waltz, Half-Remembered
Les Girls is a relic of a genre out of steam, a final bow for a studio, a star, and a composer who had once made musicals feel like dreams. There’s beauty here—Kay Kendall’s brilliance, Porter’s sly lyrics, the visual dazzle—but it’s all wrapped in a structure that collapses under its own cleverness. If you want elegance, stick with Gigi. If you want choreography, go back to Singin’ in the Rain. But if you want a mildly amusing time capsule where everyone lies and no one changes—well, Les Girls will give you a few winks and a knowing shrug.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)
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