At Long Last Redemption
By Eric Grigs | March 1, 2020
In an era where Broadway is churning out greatest-hits jukebox musicals and Hollywood is repackaging and rebooting what’s left of our goodwill feelings for bygone eras while it can, it seems as good a time as any to revisit Peter Bogdanovich’s 1975 film At Long Last Love. This movie is an unabashed celebration of old musicals and 30s nostalgia set to the catalog of early 20th century master American songwriter Cole Porter. Bridging decades even past the 30s and 70s, the movie more recently became a heartwarming story about how a pop culture fan’s love of this particular flick gave us all a secret gift by way of Netflix, of all places—unwittingly rescuing it from the pop trash heap.
This big screen love letter to the genius of Porter’s music was both a box-office and critical failure upon its initial release (yet arguably more fun than 2004’s high-concept biopic De-Lovely). It’s most notable accomplishment: the entire film was live-sung, some scenes in continuous shots, predating by almost four decades Tom Hooper’s 2012 celebrated technical achievement of doing the same throughout in Les Misérables—albeit on a much grander scale. Bogdanovich wanted to give it an authentic 30s feel, and sung straight to film was the way most musicals of that time were captured, instead of the current usual practice of actors lip syncing performances to pre-recorded tracks.
The star-crossed and trading-places lovers plot is flimsy, but also feels right for the type of film Love is trying to emulate and era it’s channeling. Using archetypes from early musical comedies for the characterizations of each of the four stars (Burt Reynolds as the carefree playboy, Cybill Shepherd the madcap heiress, Madeline Kahn the stage diva, and Duilio Del Prete the worldly gambler), it’s lighter than a leaf being blown about in a gentle day’s breeze. You won’t find any virtuoso singing here and Gene Kelly could have danced circles around the choreography, but these deficiencies somehow only enhance its charm. The performances are all so earnest. Everybody is just here for a good time—and as you watch, you can’t help but be won over. (Exhibit A: Veteran character actress Eileen Brennan’s cheeky number “Most Gentlemen Don’t Like Love.”)
Julie Kirgo notes Bogdanovich was dissuaded by the studio to release another black and white movie after The Last Picture Show and Paper Moon, and his response was to use production design, costuming, and cinematography to give it a “black-and-white in color” feel. Had Bogdanovich actually released this in monochrome, I think it would work even better. And perhaps it would have gotten a warmer reception from the critics.
Or maybe there was no saving it at the time. Bogdanovich and Shepherd were dating and hounded by the tabloid press about their relationship, but this time the critics were out for blood. Most savaged it—save for a few kind words by Roger Ebert—instead, reviewing their relationship and attacking the casting choices, more than the film itself.
Most of the weaknesses the critics seized upon turn out to be largely influenced by outside forces deflating the delicate soufflé Bogdanovich was baking. The gossip rags wanted to take down a power couple they were tired of writing about while scoring some jabs to bruise the director’s ego. (Reynolds once said: “What was reviewed was Peter and Cybill’s relationship...They were all waiting with their hatchets and knives.”) In addition, after the success of What’s Up Doc?, Bogdanovich misread the audience’s appetite for a lighthearted musical in a decade that was increasingly intent on embracing gritty realism, making it feel out of step at the time. Lastly, there was the studio pressuring a gifted director on re-cuts to rush the film to open quickly against his better judgment.
After a disastrous theatrical run, the film seemed destined to fade into obscurity. It somehow gained a reputation all its own, though it had been rarely seen. With only one home media release on VHS in 1981 and occasional TV airings, people had little firsthand knowledge of the actual source’s quality—as time went by, its infamy only grew, perpetuated by vague memory and poor word-of-mouth.
Years later, enter longtime Fox studio editor Jim Blakely who loved Cole Porter music and was delighted by this movie—sharing none of the critics’ reasons to disdain the picture. Working off Bogdanovich’s original shooting script and the sequencing of the first test screening cut, he secretly reassembled the film and put it back in the vault. It was this version that entered the rotation of Netflix’s streaming offerings. Quietly, audiences were given the chance to rediscover and fall in love with Love on their own terms.
One of those people who saw it anew: Bogdanovich. He soon realized it wasn’t the flawed and disparaged theatrical release—this was closer to what he had originally intended, perhaps even better than he remembered. He did some digging and found the source of the new cut, and with more humility than most legendary directors might show, graciously gave credit to Blakely (who had since died). After adding a few more minutes of footage, Bogdanovich released the “Definitive Director’s Edition” only on Blu-ray in 2013. Now sold out, it has not been repressed since; unfortunately becoming a bit of a rarity once again. (Though the soundtrack is still readily available on streaming services like Spotify.)
While still far from a perfect film, its quirkiness and trajectory through time has only helped it improve with age. As W. Stephen Gilbert in Time Out remarked: “Everybody hated Bogdanovich’s homage, a trivial story slotted round some Cole Porter songs...It may be a movie we’ll come back to later and find we all like it.”
At Long Last Love is one of those rare movies that shows how the distance of time can reclaim works, and serve a little pop trash justice along the way. It’s also a beautiful reminder that for every movie someone considers trash, someone else loves it unconditionally. When I screen it, I feel like Jim Blakely probably did as he watched it—delighted in the magic that it actually is, not what someone else says it is, or wants it to be.
Eric Grigs is a pop culture writer, artist, and co-host of the Pop Trash Podcast.