A STAR IS BORN: A FLAWED MASTERPIECE

George Cukor’s A Star Is Born (1954) is often hailed as a landmark in Hollywood musical drama, celebrated for Judy Garland’s powerhouse performance and its emotionally resonant narrative. Yet, despite its acclaim, the film is not without significant problems—both in its production history and in its final form. These issues have sparked debate among critics and cinephiles for decades.

Perhaps the most glaring issue with A Star Is Born is the infamous studio interference that led to the mutilation of Cukor’s original vision. The film was initially released at a running time of 182 minutes, but Warner Bros. quickly cut nearly 30 minutes after its premiere to allow for more daily screenings. These cuts were made without Cukor’s input and resulted in the loss of key character development and narrative cohesion. In 1983, a restoration effort attempted to reconstruct the original version using surviving footage and production stills, but the damage was already done. The missing scenes—especially those that deepened Norman Maine’s tragic arc—left the film feeling uneven and emotionally rushed in places.

 
While Judy Garland’s performance is rightly celebrated, the film’s portrayal of her character, Esther Blodgett, reflects problematic gender dynamics. Esther’s rise to fame is framed almost entirely through the lens of her relationship with Norman Maine, a fading star whose alcoholism and self-destruction dominate the narrative. Esther’s success is constantly overshadowed by her emotional labor in supporting Norman, culminating in a finale that reinforces the idea that a woman’s ultimate role is to sacrifice for the man she loves. This dynamic, while emotionally powerful, reinforces outdated tropes about women’s roles in both relationships and the entertainment industry.

Even in its restored form, A Star Is Born suffers from pacing issues. The first act is rich with musical numbers and character development, but the second half becomes increasingly melodramatic and rushed. The tonal shift from vibrant musical to somber tragedy is jarring, and the film struggles to maintain narrative momentum. This imbalance is partly due to the missing footage, but also reflects a structural flaw in the screenplay. The film devotes significant time to Esther’s rise, but Norman’s decline—arguably the emotional core of the story—feels compressed and underexplored.

Judy Garland’s performance is undeniably magnetic, but the film leans heavily on her real-life struggles to enhance its emotional impact. Her personal history with addiction and career setbacks mirrors Esther’s journey, blurring the line between performance and autobiography. While this adds a layer of poignancy, it also raises ethical questions about how much the film exploits Garland’s vulnerabilities for dramatic effect. The result is a performance that feels both transcendent and uncomfortably self-referential.

A Star Is Born (1954) remains a powerful and influential film, but its legacy is complicated by production woes, gendered storytelling, and structural flaws. It is a film of breathtaking highs and frustrating lows—a flawed masterpiece that continues to inspire admiration and critique in equal measure...

STAR FRIENDS: DICK VAN DYKE AND JULIE ANDREWS

The friendship between Dick Van Dyke and Julie Andrews began in 1964 on the set of Mary Poppins. Their friendship spans 61 years, beginning in 1964 on the set of “Mary Poppins.” Van Dyke arrived as the exuberant Bert. Andrews, making her film debut, stepped into Mary Poppins with poise and sharp focus. The set gave them more than a classic musical. It gave them a partnership built on trust and easy laughter.

Van Dyke has recalled how Andrews encouraged him through physically demanding choreography and long rehearsal days. Her notes were precise, never harsh, and she paired them with a smile or a quick aside to settle nerves. He thrived under that kindness. The penguin sequence became a private touchstone for them, a memory they could reference years later whenever one needed a spark of joy.
Once “Mary Poppins” soared, their schedules pulled in different directions. Andrews raced into “The Sound of Music” in 1965 and a run of acclaimed performances. Van Dyke toggled between film roles, stage work, and the rhythms of television that had already made him a household name through “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” Amid premieres and press, they made time to exchange letters and calls. Each note sounded like a quick return to the London soundstage where their friendship began.

A backstage reunion in the late 1970s showed how little the core had changed. Van Dyke visited after an Andrews performance and found conversation flowing as if the orchestra were still tuning. They traded stories about choreographers and the mischief of corps dancers who tried to make them laugh mid take. Memory turned into fuel for new work, and good humor lifted the pressure that followed big successes.
Their bond adjusted to the realities of health and geography. Andrews has long kept a home in Switzerland, while Van Dyke’s base remained in California. They bridged the distance with video messages on birthdays, quick calls after premieres, and short notes when one spotted a magazine profile of the other. The ritual mattered. It kept their working shorthand alive in a quieter form.

Tributes became another thread. When Van Dyke received a major honor, Andrews recorded words that praised his energy and generosity on set. He later said hearing her voice brought him back to the moment they first tried lines together in London. When Andrews marked a milestone of her own, Van Dyke returned the kindness with a personal message that folded in gratitude, a bit of teasing about rehearsal habits, and a memory of them cracking up during a camera reset.

The late 1990s tested Andrews with significant vocal surgery. Van Dyke responded with reassurance that her gift went far beyond singing. He reminded her of the clarity she brought to scenes, the way she lifted colleagues, and the steadiness that anchored long shoots. That encouragement reflected what he valued most from 1964 onward. It was the same steady presence she had given him during rehearsals for tap-heavy numbers.

In recent years, celebrations have been smaller but no less heartfelt. Friends have mentioned calls where Van Dyke lights up the moment Andrews appears on screen. She asks about his dancing and balance work. He asks about her writing and the rhythms of her days. When awards broadcasts include archival clips from “Mary Poppins,” they often exchange a quick message noting the scene, the costuming detail, or the way a camera move still feels fresh.

The friendship also remains a study in complementary temperaments. Van Dyke brings buoyant optimism that reads instantly on his face. Andrews brings calm attention to detail that gives partners confidence. Together, they created a working environment that felt playful and safe, then protected that feeling across six decades with small acts of care. A note. A call. A two minute video that says I see you.
For admirers who met them through “Mary Poppins,” the most striking fact is the endurance. Sixty one years after that first rehearsal, the pair still value the same things they noticed on day one. He admired her discipline and kindness. She admired his spark and generous spirit. Time altered careers and routines, yet the friendship kept its simple architecture of encouragement and shared delight in the work...

MUSIC BREAK: BARNEY MARTIN - MISTER CELLOPHANE

Does anyone remember that Barney Martin introduced this song in the original production of Chicago in 1975? He was more famous for playing Jerry Seinfeld's father in the television comedy "Seinfeld". Barney was a great actor and does a great job on this song. It's one of my favorite songs from the production...

CELEBRITY DEATH CERTIFICATES: BIX BIEDERBECKE

Here is the death certificate of jazz great Bix Biederbecke who tragically died young on August 6, 1931 at the age of  28...

A MOMENT WITH MARTIN BALSAM

While starring on an episode of "Alfred Hitchcock Presents," Alfred Hitchcock was so impressed by Martin Balsam's work that he offered him a key supporting role of Detective Milton Arbogast in "Psycho" (1960).

According to Hitchcock, a series of shots with Arbogast going up the stairs in the Bates house before he is stabbed were done by assistant director Hilton A. Green, working with storyboard artist Saul Bass' drawings only while Hitchcock was incapacitated with the common cold. However, upon viewing the dailies of the shots, Hitchcock was forced to scrap them. He claimed they were "no good" because they did not portray "an innocent person but a sinister man who was going up those stairs". Hitchcock later re-shot the scene, though a little of the cut footage made its way into the film. Filming the murder of Arbogast proved problematic owing to the overhead camera angle necessary to hide the film's twist. A camera track constructed on pulleys alongside the stairway together with a chairlike device had to be constructed and thoroughly tested over a period of weeks.

The shot of Arbogast falling backward down the stairs was a process shot of Balsam sitting stationary and waving his arms, as if losing his balance, in front of a screen projecting a previously filmed dolly shot moving down the stairs.

Balsam also performed the original voice of the HAL 9000 computer in "2001: A Space Odyssey". After his lines were recorded, director Stanley Kubrick decided "Marty just sounded a little bit too colloquially American," and hired Douglas Rain to perform the role for the released film...

FROM THE ARCHIVES: GENE KELLY & VERA-ELLEN

Gene Kelly's widow Patricia recently posted this telegram from Vera-Ellen to Gene. Such great memorabilia from March 28, 1949...

HISTORY OF A SONG: JUNE IN JANUARY

The year was 1934, and America was deep in the grip of winter—and the Great Depression. Yet, in the midst of cold winds and economic hardship, a melody drifted through radios and theaters that promised warmth and hope. It was called June in January, and it carried the magic of summer into the frostiest season.

The song was born on the silver screen in the Paramount film Here Is My Heart. Bing Crosby, already a rising star, crooned the tune with that effortless charm that made him a household name. Written by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin, the lyrics painted a picture of a clouded moon and sighing winds, only to transform the bleak January night into a blossoming June—all because of love.

When Crosby recorded the song on November 9, 1934, with Georgie Stoll’s orchestra, it was an instant sensation. The record climbed to number one and stayed there for seven weeks, becoming Crosby’s biggest hit of the year. For listeners struggling through hard times, the song was more than music—it was a promise that warmth and beauty could bloom even in the coldest days.

Other artists quickly embraced the tune. Richard Himber’s orchestra recorded the first version, and soon Little Jack Little, Ted Fio Rito, and Guy Lombardo added their interpretations. Each brought a different shade to the melody, but Crosby’s version remained the definitive one—a voice that could melt snow.

As decades passed, June in January never faded. Jo Stafford, Julie London, Dean Martin, and even jazz guitarist Wes Montgomery gave it new life. Crosby himself revisited the song twice: once in 1954 for his musical autobiography and again in 1977 for his album Seasons, just months before his passing. It was as if he knew the song’s message was eternal.

Why does it endure? Perhaps because it speaks to something universal—the way love can turn winter into summer, darkness into light. Nearly a century later, June in January still plays on vintage playlists and in the hearts of those who believe in love’s transformative power.

So next time January feels too cold, let Bing Crosby’s voice remind you: somewhere in the music, it’s always June...