Owned release: This is included on Disc 2 of the Strip Strip Hooray! collection of burlesque films released on DVD by Something Weird & Image Entertainment in 2012.
Acquired: June 13th, 2012 from Amazon.
Seen before?: Twice before, both from this disc - December 6th, 2012 and August 21st, 2017.
From a film with its roots in burlesque to a burlesque film - how's that for a transition?
How to describe a burlesque film? On one level, it's easy: it's essentially a filmed record of various strip routines, songs and comedy performances meant to approximate a night out at a burlesque hall, with the strip routines being the hook upon which these films are sold. But that just explains what it is - how, then, to explain the curious appeal of the genre, the fascination I find in these dorky, stagebound concoctions that tend to feature some of the worst comedy ever seen and technicals that would embarrass Barry Mahon? And what makes The A-B-C's of Love any better or worse than others of its ilk?
I can only be honest, so I'll start with the obvious: Films of this ilk were built foremost as vehicles for espying beautiful women in just-left-of-taboo states of undress, and I am nothing if not a dedicated cinematic voyeur. Give me a genre whose main intent is to show me some form of nudity, and I'll probably at least dip into it, and if the burlesque film is creaky and dated, at least it's not as rock-stupid as your average nudist-colony film. Beyond that brutish fact, there's an innocence to these films I find appealing - it's wholesome smut, if you will, done with a smile. Plus, they're generally an easy watch; there's a little jiggle, some barn-broad comedy that aims for sniggers without getting too nasty, and the whole thing usually wraps in 70 minutes or so. So, as with any hidebound formula, details and performance choices make the difference between a good time and a forgettable one. That, too - the ripple-effect of small differences within the rigor of formula - is something I find to be of endless interest.
Where then does The A-B-C's of Love fit into the spectrum? Having now seen it three times (for some damn reason), I feel safe in saying that while it isn't the worst burlesque film I've seen (Duke Goldstone's Hollywood Burlesque, which seems to have been filmed entirely from the balcony of the theater it's ostensibly taking place in, is probably my low-water mark for this sort of thing), neither is it much beyond passable, and director Lillian Hunt has done better work, including my current favorite B Girl Rhapsody. When it comes to girl-watching, The A-B-C's of Love is not really the film upon which to mount that defense - its representation of the ecdysiastic arts is one of the less thrilling ones I've seen in this genre, with two dancers (Jill Adams's tap-dance routine and Helen Lewis's spirited can-can) removing zero clothing and at least one dancer (May Blondell) whose lack of enthusiasm is palpable. (It doesn't help Ms. Blondell that the post-dubbed music, in an unusual choice, falls out of sync with her routine at a number of points, nor does it help that print damage has shorn away about a third of her screentime.) Bebe Hughes's cute-coy spinning jig is the undeniable highlight; further tips of the cap go to whomever decided to play the glockenspiel when Blaza Glory starts vigorously shaking her assets and to the cameraman for setting up a real shock-twist by pulling in to highlight headliner Gilda's seductive hair flip after holding every shot at a standard medium length for the previous 60 minutes.
The non-fleshy portions of this are similarly a mixed bag, with a couple uninteresting musical numbers from the MC that scream of needed padding (this barely heaves itself over the hour mark) and comedy routines that mostly boil down to yelling. But two of the routines have an ace in the hole - George "Beetlepuss" Lewis, a burlesque veteran whose muttering half-soused shtick and sly sense of timing stand out amid the constant volume contest. The first of his featured bits, about a bet centering around the counting of hats, is the barest of jokes, but Lewis's growing mix of exasperation and confusion as he tries to prove three times three equals nine makes the sequence work far sharper than written, plus he scores an honest surprise of a laugh with a goofy, well-timed hip gyration. His second starring bit, a long rendition of a very old gag about one man advising another on how to sex his wife to death, is the keeper here. Lewis's combination of disbelief and pre-emptive exhaustion while listening to the instructions, his twitter-pated expulsion of the word "rendez-vous," his sozzled lecherousness when he describes trying to punish his wife through spanking, his wheezy yet committed delivery of the ultimate punchline, his crack timing on the line, "With the cat?" which as a result gets from me one of the biggest laughs I've ever thrown out during a burlesque film every time... he's invaluable, and he sells the bit until it sparkles. It is, at last, the little things that make the difference.
How to describe a burlesque film? On one level, it's easy: it's essentially a filmed record of various strip routines, songs and comedy performances meant to approximate a night out at a burlesque hall, with the strip routines being the hook upon which these films are sold. But that just explains what it is - how, then, to explain the curious appeal of the genre, the fascination I find in these dorky, stagebound concoctions that tend to feature some of the worst comedy ever seen and technicals that would embarrass Barry Mahon? And what makes The A-B-C's of Love any better or worse than others of its ilk?
I can only be honest, so I'll start with the obvious: Films of this ilk were built foremost as vehicles for espying beautiful women in just-left-of-taboo states of undress, and I am nothing if not a dedicated cinematic voyeur. Give me a genre whose main intent is to show me some form of nudity, and I'll probably at least dip into it, and if the burlesque film is creaky and dated, at least it's not as rock-stupid as your average nudist-colony film. Beyond that brutish fact, there's an innocence to these films I find appealing - it's wholesome smut, if you will, done with a smile. Plus, they're generally an easy watch; there's a little jiggle, some barn-broad comedy that aims for sniggers without getting too nasty, and the whole thing usually wraps in 70 minutes or so. So, as with any hidebound formula, details and performance choices make the difference between a good time and a forgettable one. That, too - the ripple-effect of small differences within the rigor of formula - is something I find to be of endless interest.
Where then does The A-B-C's of Love fit into the spectrum? Having now seen it three times (for some damn reason), I feel safe in saying that while it isn't the worst burlesque film I've seen (Duke Goldstone's Hollywood Burlesque, which seems to have been filmed entirely from the balcony of the theater it's ostensibly taking place in, is probably my low-water mark for this sort of thing), neither is it much beyond passable, and director Lillian Hunt has done better work, including my current favorite B Girl Rhapsody. When it comes to girl-watching, The A-B-C's of Love is not really the film upon which to mount that defense - its representation of the ecdysiastic arts is one of the less thrilling ones I've seen in this genre, with two dancers (Jill Adams's tap-dance routine and Helen Lewis's spirited can-can) removing zero clothing and at least one dancer (May Blondell) whose lack of enthusiasm is palpable. (It doesn't help Ms. Blondell that the post-dubbed music, in an unusual choice, falls out of sync with her routine at a number of points, nor does it help that print damage has shorn away about a third of her screentime.) Bebe Hughes's cute-coy spinning jig is the undeniable highlight; further tips of the cap go to whomever decided to play the glockenspiel when Blaza Glory starts vigorously shaking her assets and to the cameraman for setting up a real shock-twist by pulling in to highlight headliner Gilda's seductive hair flip after holding every shot at a standard medium length for the previous 60 minutes.
The non-fleshy portions of this are similarly a mixed bag, with a couple uninteresting musical numbers from the MC that scream of needed padding (this barely heaves itself over the hour mark) and comedy routines that mostly boil down to yelling. But two of the routines have an ace in the hole - George "Beetlepuss" Lewis, a burlesque veteran whose muttering half-soused shtick and sly sense of timing stand out amid the constant volume contest. The first of his featured bits, about a bet centering around the counting of hats, is the barest of jokes, but Lewis's growing mix of exasperation and confusion as he tries to prove three times three equals nine makes the sequence work far sharper than written, plus he scores an honest surprise of a laugh with a goofy, well-timed hip gyration. His second starring bit, a long rendition of a very old gag about one man advising another on how to sex his wife to death, is the keeper here. Lewis's combination of disbelief and pre-emptive exhaustion while listening to the instructions, his twitter-pated expulsion of the word "rendez-vous," his sozzled lecherousness when he describes trying to punish his wife through spanking, his wheezy yet committed delivery of the ultimate punchline, his crack timing on the line, "With the cat?" which as a result gets from me one of the biggest laughs I've ever thrown out during a burlesque film every time... he's invaluable, and he sells the bit until it sparkles. It is, at last, the little things that make the difference.
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