The Great Ziegfeld (1936) Reviews

I’m sure that the real story of Florenz Ziegfeld is worthy of a three hour spectacle, but this movie plays so fast and loose with the story, unconcerned with dramatics in fact, that it clearly only wants to move as quickly as possible from one big production number or melodramatic scene to the next. The Great Ziegfeld is probably a more tightly constructed variation of the blossoming genre of thinly veiled biopics that MGM traded in over the following decade: a loosely constructed plot to disguise the fact that we’re watching a filmed revue. Later films like Words and Music feature better production numbers, but The Great Ziegfeld never drags for a moment despite the sense of bloat that occurs frequently.

Perhaps Ziegfeld is most illuminating about MGM’s figurehead, Louis B. Mayer. Here was a super-production without the fingerprints of Irving Thalberg, this one was all Mayer, and his ludicrous artistic vision. The story superficially concerns Ziegfeld’s rise, increasing lavish productions, and grand showmanship, but it’s really a bit of back-patting from MGM’s head-honcho. This is the type of elephantine cinema that makes clean sweeps at the Oscars, despite never truly deserving such accolades.

It’s easy to confuse biggest with being the best. The Great Ziegfeld certainly is BIG. Bordering on garish the production numbers are things that hit you over the head with the swirling gigs, rising curtains, and showgirls buried under sparkles and fringe. This sense of overly fussy production carries over into the three lead acting performances that are at times too large. William Powell, normally an urbane sophisticate that I adore spending time with, is lost here. There’s no tether for him to hold on to or arc for him to play. His Ziegfeld is unchanging from the first frame until the very last, with only age makeup to signify a major growth has happened. This is the master showman as saintly figure, yet another moment in which Mayer’s self-congratulations feels unearned. The amount of crocodile tears the production probably had to shed while he gave orders about this could have turned the Sahara into the wetlands.

Myrna Loy, normally a perfect foil to Powell, also feels lost amongst the glitter and pomp. Her third-place top billing is nothing but a bit of name recognition to pull in audiences. The movie is three hours long, and she shows up for the last forty-five minutes, roughly. She doesn’t capture anything of Billie Burke, and her performance mostly consists of a new hair color and nothing dramatic for her to play. Luise Rainer fares better in the sense that she has more scenes to play, but her performance is too mannered. Rainer projects a delicate nature, but her performance is brittle and fluttery, and she plays everything too large. The infamous phone scene is a study in the theatrical technique the Method generation sought to remove. It’s a decent enough performance, but to win the Oscar over Carole Lombard’s iconic work in My Man Godfrey? Strange.

As heavy-handed, teetering towards a grotesque celebration of quantity over quality, as The Great Ziegfeld is, it’s no worse than many modern Oscar winners. In 1936 this won Best Picture, and, frankly, it probably would stand a good chance of winning that title in any decade given the sheer number of bloated, banal films with epic running times that have claimed that honor. There’s some fine moments hidden within the colossal running time, but the film mostly plays as a enormous masturbatory bit of ego stroking from Mayer.