The similarities between Charles Vidor’s Gilda and Michael Curtiz’s Casablanca are shockingly numerous. Major plot points and settings and set pieces all recall the Best Picture from four years earlier. And yet, Gilda always remains its (and her) own thing. One notices the parallels as they pass, but always with the focus on what the central love triangle of this film is up to. And they get up to a lot. Gilda is no decorous Ilsa Laszlo. In the movie’s most famous shot—Rita Hayworth’s entrance as the titular firecracker—George Macready, playing her husband, has just asked, “Gilda, are you decent?” as he brings his soon-to-be rival played Glenn Ford to meet her. And up shoots Hayworth, from the bottom of the frame, an eruption of wild hair, followed by a coyly replying face: “Me?”
Let me set any fears to rest: Gilda is far more than decent. It is astounding. Truths and motives shift among the trio constantly, and due to their pact of fresh slates all around, the facts that link them—now and in the past—are only referenced in code. Even the standard film noir voiceover by Ford reveals nothing earlier than the film’s beginning. This has led certain eminent reviewers to complain about the movie’s “confusing” lack of details. But for any astute viewer—any man or woman who has half-spoken to a member of the opposite sex—the truths are clear, even if the details are not. (And, truly, the details are irrelevant to the plot.)
While both Macready and Ford (as well as the large ensemble that orbits them) are just right in their roles, the stars of Gilda are twofold: the script and Rita Hayworth. The screenplay is filled with just as many clever turnabouts and cheeky entendres as any film noir, but they’re never gratuitous wordplay. They may be mum on specifics, but these characters say a lot beneath their choice of words. The screenplay sparkles, entertains, and engrosses. And just when we need it, Hayworth appears with one of the film’s several song and dance numbers. These also are never a sign to turn off your brain. The words, the movements, and the flashing eyes all further the plot. (Sadly, Rita Hayworth never used her own singing voice, but I could not tell from her masterful lipsyncing to Anita Ellis’s vocals.)
I have always dismissed Hayworth as a studio-made wartime pin-up sex symbol (which she clearly was), but she had the talent and charisma to back it up with lively and riveting performances. Just watching her here and in Orson Welles’s The Lady from Shanghai is enough to elevate her above most of her peers. I look forward to my ensuing Rita Hayworth marathon (and I’m sure I’ll keep you posted).
Gilda is complex, dark, fizzy, and elegant all at once. It deserves a watch from each of you.