Huston must have been Technicolor-blinded: the film is awash in garish hues, about the only thing to recommend it. Seen the dancing girls once, you've seen them jump and yelp six or seven times. Dull script (well, Huston didn't have Dashiell Hammett as his foundation), with a flashback sequence that seems slightly ridiculous, with José Ferrer playing Lautrec AND Lautrec's father (see the virtuosity!), leaden pacing, not a single clever line. Lautrec comes across as a bearded brat, pettish and spoiled. The flash-cut sequences showing Lautrec's paintings are jumpy and amateurish and poorly timed--it's hard to believe this is the creator of The Maltese Falcon, Beat The Devil, and Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Painter loses girl, painter loses girl, painter loses girl. Nobody loves him or appreciates him, then he dies. Zsa Zsa Gabor lip-synchs bad songs badly and offers nothing as an actress except a reminder that the era required several Marilyn Monroe facsimiles. I had a difficult time staying awake, and by the time Lautrec finally closed his eyes I had long since done so myself.
Review of Moulin Rouge
