Karen Greenbaum-Maya

In the Good Old Summertime is set in winter. Romantic lead Van Johnson is tall, blond, bootstrapping his way through the world. His chest strains at his shirt. He’s a big ol’ guitar that anyone can strum. He and Judy Garland are busy posturing their cute meet. Conventional sparks flying but nothing catches fire. Perfunctory, they slap the audience around. Their loud passionless energy is predictable as soap opera. The movie really doesn’t give a damn, what with Uncle Otto the music store owner possessing a Stradivarius that he can’t play, what with Judy’s anachronistic tight red dress that zips up the back. But how did Buster Keaton end up there? Can Judy not see that he alone is the real deal, can she not see the spring of his sharp frame, his taut waist, his eyes and nose so full of heart that they almost overflow his face? Certainly he is too big for this studio movie. His cheekbones are eloquent as Lincoln. Buster is a short Abe Lincoln. And Van is no Jimmy Stewart.

The rest of the cast follow the script. Buster alone is alive, a black satin ribbon binding and winding through the Technicolor costumes. We know he hangs that suit up in his rooming house closet at night, brushes it carefully. When he pratfalls, smashes Uncle Otto’s plot point Strad, we feel his horror in our gut. All the rest is counterfeit.

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