Last night watched, “An American in Paris,”that had been waiting in my recorded archives.

The first time I saw this movie I was seventeen, and it was a network broadcast preceded by hey beyond belief.  I settled down one Saturday evening to watch it and about twenty minutes into it I arose and proclaimed, “This movie stinks!” And walked out of the room.  My mother called after me:  “Your father and I went to see this and he got up and walked out of it too!”   I remember thinking at the time it was unbearable, corny, and I couldn’t get over how the 21-year-old Leslie Caron, who I always thought was lovely, looked so terribly much like a chipmunk.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was, or when I sat down to watch it years later, but I do know it suddenly didn’t stink to me anymore.  I was entranced.  The colors, setting, direction, singing, dancing, story…that crazy artists ball and the masterfully beautiful American in Paris Ballet at the end…and all that Gershwin, in short I loved it, and have watched it many times enjoying each viewing.

But there is this one scene I always wait for, don’t know why, it isn’t my favorite, but I do wait for it and I’ve posted it above.  I only know after I’ve seen it, I go around singing, “I’ll build a stairway to Paradi-i-i-i-i-i-i-s-e with a new step every day…”

 

 

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