Rather like Douglas Adams’ famous admonition, “The knack of flying is to learn how to throw yourself at the ground and miss,” You’ll Never Get Rich (1941) throws itself at frightfully predictable plot twists and manages to avoid the grimacing, whining, and outright groaning which should come from them. Sometimes, it takes a different twist than is perhaps anticipated, while other times there’s such a light touch, a disdain for the close examination, that before we can wipe our collective forehead in relief we’re already running down the next gag.
And gags come aplenty, as Fred Astaire, playing a theatre choreographer, must play backup to his employer’s indiscreet ways. Rita Hayworth, as Sheila, is one of the employer’s attractions, and as the ignored but wealthy wife of the theatre owner comes roaring into the picture, Fred must step in to be her faux-swain. Naturally, his heart is snagged by her beauty and dancing acumen, but all comes to naught as she detects the subterfuge and flounces away.
Fred, appalled at the bruising of his heart, turns to the Army for solace, but soon Sheila is in the picture again, as well as his irrepressible employer, with yet another bird in his gunsights. Between dancing, a jilted, then unjilted, then once again jilted Army Captain, which is difficult to believe, to gags ranging from moderately fun to downright painful, this movie is worth a lazy, stormy day where the chores are less than urgent, the affairs of the world churn your heart, as would those in the years following the making of this movie, and a beloved pet yearns for your lap. Coherency is not a virtue in this world, but the art of the dance, literal or figurative, is the song of the Gods.
