Mark Griffin
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The only item that writer and producer disagreed on was the crucial casting of the leading lady. Lerner preferred Audrey Hepburn, who was now one of Hollywood’s most beloved (and bankable) stars. Freed favored Leslie Caron, who had played Gigi in an unsuccessful 1956 production in London’s West End. When Hepburn declined the offer to recreate her acclaimed characterization on film, Caron was handed what would become her signature role.
In the summer of 1956, Lerner started writing. Although the essence of Colette’s story and much of her dialogue were retained, Lerner made some significant changes for the screen. The character of Gigi’s mother, which Minnelli had found to be too present in the stage production, was reduced to an off-screen voice, while a passing reference to another character was built up into a pivotal supporting player. Colette had only hinted at a youthful romance between Gigi’s grandmother, Madame Alvarez, and an “elder Lachaille.” From this suggestion, Lerner created the character of Honore Lachaille, the charismatic uncle of Gigi’s millionaire suitor, Gaston Lachaille. The graying roué would offer his nephew advice on affairs of the heart and also serve as the story’s narrator and “master of ceremonies.” The role practically screamed Chevalier.
As the screenplay began taking shape, Lerner realized that his Gigi was more than slightly reminiscent of My Fair Lady. Both musicals offered a sharp-eyed social critique in the form of a sumptuous Cinderella story. There were also some unmistakable similarities in terms of the plot: Both Eliza Doolittle and Gigi undergo a stunning transformation—from gamine to goddess. And in each story, the central character, who is groomed to find a better way of life, goes a step further and finds herself—to the astonishment of her more mature love interest. Lerner began second-guessing himself, recognizing that there was more than just a passing resemblance between the two properties. “Stop trying to be different,” Arthur Freed reportedly told Lerner. “You don’t have to be different to be good. To be good is different enough.”3 The My Fair Lady connection would become even more pronounced when Lerner agreed to write the lyrics and convinced his initially reluctant Fair Lady partner, Frederick Loewe, to sign on to write the music for Gigi.
In Leslie Caron, Freed had found an authentic Parisian star, but one who was anything but eager to work with Minnelli again. Throughout the production of An American in Paris, Caron had struggled with Vincente’s cryptic communication style (which Judy Garland had described as “Burmese hieroglyphics”). In January 1957, Caron wrote to Freed, expressing her preference for a real talker, such as George Cukor. Unmoved, Freed backed Minnelli all the way. The other members of Caron’s on-screen family would be played by two venerable British actresses: Hermione Gingold as Madame Alvarez, Gigi’s overprotective grandmama, and Isabel Jeans as the imperious Aunt Alicia (who gets to deliver one of the film’s most memorable lines: “Bad table manners have broken up more households than infidelity.”)
With Gigi and her family finally in place, the search was on for an actor to play Gaston, the dashing heir to Lachaille Sugar. “It takes considerable style and skill to play a bored man and not to be boring,” observed Alan Jay Lerner, who believed that nobody could do the bored bit better than Dirk Bogarde.4 The British leading man was seriously considered for the role but he belonged to producer J. Arthur Rank, who would not release the actor.
Then someone suggested Louis Jourdan, who had worked with Vincente nearly a decade earlier on Madame Bovary. Sauve and exuding a distinctly cosmopolitan air, Jourdan matched Colette’s description of Gigi’s well-heeled suitor as “a man accustomed to champagne and baccarat.” Initially, Jourdan turned down the role, as he was concerned about the vocal demands involved. After being assured that he could “talk-sing” his numbers in the film (as Rex Harrison had done so effectively in My Fair Lady), Jourdan signed on. Besides, Lerner and Loewe’s score—which included “The Night They Invented Champagne,” “I Remember It Well,” and the title tune—practically sang itself. Unless you happened to be Leslie Caron, that is.
Caron believed that she would be doing her own vocalizing in Gigi until the day she showed up at a studio recording session, ready to lift her voice in song, only to be informed by conductor-arranger André Previn that she would be dubbed (by Betty Wand). According to Alan Jay Lerner, Caron was “furious and doubly so because she had not been forewarned.” Apparently Arthur Freed had neglected to inform his star that all of her musical numbers would be handled by a professional singer (despite the fact that Caron had already made prerecordings of her songs with Previn). “I’m surprised she took it so hard,” Freed shrugged.as
In April 1957, Minnelli flew to Paris, and on this trip, more than his art books went along for the ride. Vincente was accompanied by Georgette, her parents, and two-year-old Tina Nina. It was one of the rare occasions that the entire family was together. “Working day after day, long into the night, cut drastically into our domestic life,” Minnelli would say of his conspicuous absence from the sprawling residence on Crescent Drive that they had recently moved into. As Georgette was more often than not home alone, it was as though her marriage to Vincente was in name only, which many in the Hollywood community assumed anyway.
With Minnelli shooting an elaborate period musical on location and under pressure, the highly charged atmosphere didn’t seem at all conducive to bringing an already distant couple any closer together. And as usual, work won out. Said Minnelli: “If you’re going to do a musical and have it linger with people awhile, then I think you have to put as much thought and sweat and intelligence into it as a dramatic picture.” The sweat would be easy to come by, as Paris was hit with what Caron remembered as “The worst summer in twenty years.”5 Hot enough to blister. That didn’t deter the film’s unstoppable director, however. Minnelli was already consumed with resurrecting an entire bygone era. And no detail was too minute to escape his attention.
Just as 5135 Kensington Avenue had been a central “figure” in Meet Me in St. Louis and New York had become a third character in The Clock, the locations in Gigi were not just scenic backdrops but a vital part of the story. Lerner observed, “Paris was as much a character as Gaston and Gigi themselves.” 6 As Gigi’s Aunt Alicia understood and appreciated the difference between a marquise-shaped diamond and a yellow diamond of the first quality, Minnelli knew that each of the film’s locations was like one of those multifaceted gems—every setting would create a distinct mood and illuminate the characters in different ways.
Shooting began in August. “It was a battle of the queens,” says former second assistant director Hank Moonjean, who would witness the converging of several outsized egos on the set. “Beaton thinks the most important thing about the movie are the dresses. The camera man thinks the most important thing is the camera work. The make-up man thinks the most important thing is the make-up. And Sydney Guilaroff thinks the most important thing in the movie is the hair… . It wasn’t an easy shoot.”7 Vincente seemed oblivious to it all. With Gigi, he was bound and determined to create his most breathtaking canvas yet.
The film would open and close with Chevalier crooning “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” in the Bois de Boulogne. In the opening sequence, Chevalier’s boulevardier introduces himself, the youthful Gigi, and the risqué notion that in Paris, “there are some who will not marry and some who do not marry.” The opener would also set the visual tone for the film. Throughout the picture, Minnelli would pay tribute to France’s greatest artists, particularly the caricaturist Sem, though it was the work of watercolorist Constantin Guys that served as the inspiration for the look of the Bois. In these initial images in the film, the luxurious fairy tale that is Gigi begins to cast its spell. Though on the set, the mood was decidedly more nightmarish.
The heat was punishing. Tightly corseted cocottes fainted dead away. Freed’s beleaguered assistant, Lela Simone, seemed to be extinguishing a dozen fires at once. And all was not right according to Minnelli’s unerring eye. For starters, the Bois de Boulogne wasn’t nearly verdant enough. Vincente called f
or a small row of trees to be planted so that the location would more closely resemble the paintings of Constatin Guys. But it seemed that the moment one problem was solved, another emerged.
When Minnelli took a good look at the rented costumes the assembled extras were wearing, he pronounced them “disasters.” In an attempt to salvage the offending ensembles, Beaton and his dutiful assistants scurried over to each actor, affixing ribbons, plumes, and other eye-catching accessories to each outfit. When Beaton was finished, the eyesores had been transformed into the last word in turn-of-the-century chic.
Every day was a race to create a little magic while the weather, wilting trees, exasperated extras, fading light, and constrained budget got in the way—to say nothing of the Parisian notion of “coffee breaks.” According to Hank Moonjean, “The French crews have a bottle of wine at lunch. Let’s just say that things after lunch are not as good as they are before lunch.”8
Officials at the Department of the Seine were dumbfounded when Vincente informed them that he wanted to shoot at the Palais de Glace, the cavernous ice-skating rink. Not only did this crazy American auteur want to photograph ice in August, but he wanted to do so at the crumbling old démodé ice palace, which was anything but ready for its close-up. After Minnelli and Beaton worked their magic, however, the dilapidated relic was restored to a convincing version of its former glory.
Actress Monique Van Vooren, whom Cecil Beaton described as “a tall blonde with a Mae West figure and a personality of equal proportions,” remembered that Minnelli spent considerable time in the Palais de Glace, although much of his work wound up on the cutting-room floor: “We had a lot of scenes in the ice-skating rink, but so much of it was cut. It’s too bad because I was a great skater… . I came into the production rather late. They had already cast everyone. But I think Vincente liked me very much and he agreed to put me in the picture. He was very gentle, endlessly patient, and somehow managed to observe every little detail.”9 Except one.
Richard Winckler, the actor originally cast as Eva Gabor’s unusually attentive ice-skating instructor, was forced off the picture when Gabor decided she preferred to be drilled by the devastatingly handsome Jacques Bergerac instead. The actor was summoned, and when he finally appeared, a new costume had to be fitted (Bergerac was taller than his predecessor). It was only after Minnelli called “Action!” that Bergerac admitted that he didn’t know how to skate.
Several of Gigi’s most memorable sequences were shot at the legendary Parisian eatery Maxim’s (Freed had convinced the owners to close for a few days to accommodate the shooting). In the finished film, the scenes at Maxim’s are a delirious swirl of luscious color and sparkling orchestrations—the best kind of sensory overload. One can feel Minnelli’s exhilaration as his camera swoops in and soaks up all of that art nouveau atmosphere. Beaton’s gossiping cocottes are done up like vibrantly plumed, exotic birds. Like the rest of their score, Lerner and Loewe’s “She Is Not Thinking of Me” is expertly interwoven with the dramatic content of the scene. As Gaston fumes over the inattentiveness of his lady love, his witty interior monologue is heard on the soundtrack: “In her eyes tonight, there’s a glow tonight, they’re so bright they could light Fontainbleau tonight… . She is not thinking of me.”
As Maurice Chevalier and Eva Gabor glide by in their giddy waltz, it’s hard to believe that the effervescent joie de vivre displayed on screen is the ultimate grand illusion. For shooting in the restaurant’s cramped quarters and in such sweltering heat that even the walls were perspiring was a living hell. “All I can remember is that it was so damned hot in that Maxim’s,” says Hank Moonjean. “It was so damned hot. Everyone’s make-up is going and all the actors are in heavy period costumes and it was congested. It was a miserable, miserable shoot, and of course, Minnelli would be going up to take 30, take 35 … take 40. And the extras were getting tired. Everyone was just anxious to get the hell out of there.” Temperatures soared and tempers flared. “I saw Arthur Freed and Minnelli go at it … you know, like they’re going to kill each other any minute,” Moonjean remembers. “On movies, it’s sort of standard that producers fight with directors and all that but this was fierce… . You know, they were probably friendly enemies, they were together for so many years.”10
Fidgety and easily agitated even on the back lot in Culver City, Minnelli was all jangled nerves on location. While he was pushing himself, the cast, and the crew to the limit in the oppressive heat, a series of calamities befell the overburdened director. Vincente’s omnipresent boom smashed through the tinted glass ceiling at Maxim’s, and somewhere between shooting the skating sequence at the Palais de Glace and Eva Gabor’s illicit rendezvous in Montfort-l’Amaury, Minnelli contracted whooping cough. Then, while shooting the title number in the Jardin de Bagatelle, the director was bitten by one of the swans he had painstakingly “auditioned” for four days.
Back in Hollywood, Metro executives were equally frazzled. Although Elvis Presley was setting the box office on fire with Jailhouse Rock, many of the studio’s other recent releases had tanked. For the first time in the studio’s history, MGM lost money, sinking some $455,000 into the red. At the end of August, Ben Thau summoned Minnelli and company back to Culver City. In an effort to curtail expenditures and keep a closer eye on Vincente’s extravagant endeavor, angsty executives insisted that the rest of the picture would have to be completed on the lot.
The only thing remaining in Paris was Georgette Magnani. She had decided that her marriage to Vincente was over. At this point, it had to have been perfectly clear to her that she would always be competing with something for her husband’s attention: his latest picture, the studio, Judy’s enormous shadow, Liza, a thick volume on Leonardo da Vinci, or any number of Vincente’s other romantic interests. Even on the rare occasions when the couple were actually in the same room, Minnelli could still be pretty hard to find. “Vincente was in another world. He was a dreamer,” Magnani would later remark. 11
Shooting resumed in California in September. Venice Beach, which usually played host to body builders and bohemians, stood in for France’s Trouville. For the scenes depicting Gigi and Gaston’s carefree weekend by the sea, Minnelli hoped to emulate the style of French landscape painter Eugene Boudin—or at least what he thought was Boudin. Taking his cue from Vincente, Cecil Beaton outfitted the actors and extras in dark shades like the ones on display in Boudin’s 1869 painting Bathers on the Beach at Trouville. When Minnelli saw the results, he was aghast. The director had envisioned his seascape in bright pastels. Of course, that kind of palette was more in league with the Impressionists (Renoir, Manet), but Beaton didn’t bother to argue. Instead, he doled out colorful clothing and accoutrements in an attempt to give Vincente the Impressionist effect he wanted.
Beaton, for one, believed that artifice was winning out over authenticity. “All the scenes that were taken in Hollywood were very damaging,” the designer remarked. “To me, the whole success of the film was the Parisian flavor and that was created by making it in France. As soon as we had a swan on the back lot, it looked like the back lot.”12
Chuck Walters, who had made contributions to Minnelli’s Ziegfeld Follies and had helmed Leslie Caron’s 1953 sleeper Lili (which Vincente had declined to direct), was called in to choreograph the exuberant “The Night They Invented Champagne,” one of the few musical numbers in Gigi that features dancing. Minnelli had graced the picture with a stately elegance, but it was Walters who added a welcome ingredient: energy. Throughout the film, the principals often perform their songs while seated. In a refreshing change of pace, Walters gets everyone up on their feet and moving.
In the three months between the official end of production and the initial preview, Gigi was the cause of much in-house intrigue. Minnelli had been so entranced with the atmosphere at Maxim’s that he had favored long shots while shooting there. But what about close-ups of Louis Jourdan during “She Is Not Thinking of Me”? These were needed to reinforce the notion that the viewer was
eavesdropping on Gaston’s private thoughts. At great expense, close-ups of Jourdan would have to be shot in Hollywood with a carefully reconstructed set doubling as Maxim’s. Another mad scramble ensued. After assisting with this and countless other emergencies, Freed’s overwhelmed assistant Lela Simone finally threw in the towel after years of dedicated service.
The rest of the team soldiered on, including editor Adrienne Fazan, who was tasked with putting all the pieces of Gigi together. At one point, Margaret Booth, the venerable grande dame of the MGM editing department, was brought on to assist with cutting the picture. But in Fazan’s eyes, Booth butchered the film, hacking out the very heart of the story: “She cut all the warmth out of it—with Chevalier, Caron, Gingold, everybody!”13
It was this version of Gigi that was first previewed on January 20, 1958, at the Granada Theatre in Santa Barbara. The reception the film received reminded its creators of Howard Dietz’s comment to Arthur Freed upon hearing Lerner and Loewe’s score for the first time: “Arthur, this will be the most charming flop you ever made.”14 MGM’s upper echelon was reasonably satisfied with the audience’s reaction to the picture, but the composer and lyricist did not share their optimism. For Lerner and Loewe (and especially Lerner), there was something missing. Although the film was visually spectacular, the warmth and intimacy of Colette’s story only occasionally found its way to the screen. Pacing was another problem—some scenes overstayed their welcome, while others (such as Caron’s “The Parisians”) seemed to flit by without making any impression. The orchestrations, according to Lerner, were “too creamy and ill-defined.” The team that had galvanized Broadway with My Fair Lady left the preview feeling that their Gigi had somehow slipped away. “To Fritz and me, it was a very far cry from all we had hoped for, far enough for both of us to be desperate,” Lerner said. “The ride home from Santa Barbara was not unlike the ride home from any funeral.”15