There’s a saying in Hollywood: if you can’t get Gene Kelly, throw a fedora on Frank Sinatra and hope no one notices he dances like he’s dodging creditors. Pal Joey is a technicolor time capsule of mid-century musical mayhem—part glitz, part grit, and part Rita Hayworth phoning it in while pretending to be “older and wiser” at the ripe age of 38. It’s the kind of film that puts its martinis where its morals should be and sells you on the idea that a lounge lizard with a three-button suit and a sharp tongue is somehow America’s answer to Prince Charming. Spoiler: he’s not. But like a well-worn record, it’s got just enough crackle and charm to earn a spin—if you don’t mind a few skips.
The road to Pal Joey was paved with broken promises, thwarted egos, and enough casting drama to give a studio executive ulcers. The original 1940 Broadway production was a cynical, biting affair—Joey Evans was a cad, the women around him wise to it, and Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart’s songs popped like champagne corks at a divorce party. Fast forward to the 1950s, and Columbia Pictures, in its infinite wisdom, decided to soften Joey’s edges. Out went the anti-heroics, in came the redemptive crooner shtick. George Sidney ended up directing (after Billy Wilder was unceremoniously sent packing—Columbia even invoiced him for the lunch meeting), and what should have been a biting musical about moral ambiguity turned into a pinstriped fairy tale with jazz hands.
Of course, Sinatra wouldn’t have even been in the room if Gene Kelly hadn’t been MGM-bound and aging out of “loveable sleaze.” Even then, studio head Harry Cohn tried out everyone from Marlene Dietrich to Jack Lemmon for the lead. Cohn’s casting logic resembled a roulette wheel powered by spite. Sinatra finally landed the role when Dietrich recommended him and, in true Rat Pack form, rearranged the filming schedule around his circadian rhythm: shoots began at noon, wrapped at 8 p.m., and presumably skipped mornings entirely, just like Joey skips out on accountability.
The film’s biggest mystery isn’t why Sinatra was cast (he was a star, after all), but why he didn’t get top billing. That went to Hayworth, Columbia’s crown jewel, who spent the majority of the film serving champagne, smoldering in silk, and trying to convince us she was a washed-up ex-stripper rather than a movie goddess cashing her final studio check. Sinatra, ever the gentleman (or self-marketing genius), brushed off the snub with the now-legendary “ladies first” line. As for Kim Novak, her presence feels less like a performance and more like an audition for Columbia’s next ingénue—a job she got, thanks to Cohn’s very public campaign to replace Hayworth with someone blonder and more compliant. Ironically, Novak’s voice was dubbed, her character rewritten, and her romantic arc reduced to secondhand sparkles from Sinatra’s spotlight.
The plot? A lounge singer named Joey juggles two women, a shaggy dog named Snuffy, and a dream of opening his own nightclub—preferably bankrolled by someone else’s widow. The movie flirts with scandal but always pulls back before anything juicy happens. Unlike the stage musical, which ends with Joey alone and thoroughly deserving it, the film hands him a redemption arc with all the conviction of a Vegas wedding. It’s sanitized, stylized, and surprisingly sterile given how much thigh Rita Hayworth flashes while belting “Zip.”
Despite all this, Pal Joey was a smash. Critics loved it. The public ate it up like it was the last steak at Sardi’s. Sinatra won a Golden Globe, the box office rang up $7 million in rentals, and Columbia gloated all the way to the bank. But as time passed, the film settled into an awkward cinematic purgatory—too sanitized for Broadway snobs, too talky for musical purists, and too heavy on Sinatra worship to age gracefully. It’s a bit like watching your dad do karaoke to “The Lady is a Tramp”—endearing if you’re feeling nostalgic, uncomfortable if you’re sober.
Yet, Pal Joey endures—propped up by Nelson Riddle’s lush arrangements, Sinatra’s undeniable charisma, and the sheer star wattage of Hayworth and Novak sharing a screen, even if only to silently compete for who got the worse dubbing. It’s glossy, overstuffed, and missing the acidic heart of its source material, but hey—sometimes the cocktail’s more important than the conversation.
Final Verdict: Worth a watch if you’re Sinatra-curious, Hayworth-devout, or just like your musicals with extra cleavage and less consequence.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)
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