This musical is so visually stunning and sumptuous you'll wonder why you hadn't heard of it before. Gordon Willis shot this, and whether replicating classic Depression-era paintings, showing off the immense, budget-smashing sets, or catching dozens of terrific dancers mid-step, it is a popping treat for the eyes. You could literally get lost in the visuals. Every penny is on screen.

It's also one of the single most painful, least satisfying movies I've ever seen (hmm, maybe that's why you haven't heard of it before). Putrid. Just garbage. The style and beauty serves nothing. The formula is set from the opening scene: One character will get bad news and mope. This is the Depression, after all. Then, an elaborate million dollar fantasy musical number will ensue. A jolly one! D'ya like that juxtaposition? I sure hope so, 'cause the movie is going to repeat it, over and over again, for two hours. You'll want to kill Herbert Ross. Too bad he's dead.

Steve Martin gives an abolsutely disastrous dramatic performance that will end any and all questions about why he never got good parts. The musical numbers themselves could work (and, as established, look fuckin' incredible), except some genius decided that, rather than have the actors do any actual singing, they would just lip-synch to scratchy old 1930s recordings of Bing Crosby and the like. Let me repeat for the slow kids in the back: they cast Bernadette Peters as the female lead in their mega-budget musical and didn't let her sing! Once I realized that the whole movie would be following this bone-headed conceit, I threw some potato chips at the TV.

Worst purchase ever. Goddamn impulsive blind buy. If only I'd been home to see revisionists throw buzz phrases like "genre deconstruction" at it. I would have known to run away.