Let’s call a spade a spade and acknowledge that for how much I’ve said these Old Hollywood movies from the late ’30s and ’40s up through the ’50s comprise just about the best time period for movies, there are quite a few that have aged terribly.
“National Velvet” is a fine example of a super corny, campy, hokey, dopey, feel good, family movie that would make a number of modern audiences wretch. Yet it’s survived based on its pedigree. Mickey Rooney was an insurmountably huge movie star when this movie came out in 1944, and at the age of 12, it was just about the first big role for the recently late Elizabeth Taylor, whose own movie stardom needs no further editorializing. It even has a small part for Angela Lansbury, who was nominated for an Oscar for a different film and lost to one of her “National Velvet” costars for Best Supporting Actress.
But the film could not be more cut and dry. A girl with dreams and ambitions to own a horse that she loves and cares for deeply ends up winning the horse of her dreams in a raffle, discovers the horse’s potential to race and jump and enters it to race in the Grand National race in 1920s England. She goes as far as racing the horse herself and winning, despite being disqualified for being an underage girl.
Every scene is underscored with the overt folksy “charm” handled better in Frank Capra or John Ford films, including the annoying brat of a kid, the firm fool of a father always concerned about money or a broken horse cart and the mother who speaks nothing but wisdom and life parables to her constantly perky and fascinating daughter played by Taylor.
At least Taylor is somewhat convincing in the role. Even the most mundane scenes of drama, Taylor’s Velvet is glowing with enthusiasm. You really learn to admire the kid’s motivation in a way that comes across like horrible overacting with Mickey Rooney.
“National Velvet” is also not the most stunningly beautiful film I’ve seen from the period. A majority of it is shot on sound stages, but when the training montages actually treat us to some real riding in the countryside, the images are bright, colorful and lush, looking good for 1944. And the riding scenes are photographed mostly at a distance, a cinematography style almost more suited for sports broadcasting than cinema.
Even so, the actual Grand National race near the film’s end, is surprisingly exciting. Yes it repeats itself in its shots and dialogue, but with no music and jockeys careening over like in a Monty Python sketch, the scene is quite enticing.
It also leads to one of the most hilariously bad lines I’ve heard a movie doctor say in a while. “I’m a doctor, and I can confirm that that’s a girl!” It further tacks on 15 unnecessary and draggy minutes of movie after the race climax, and about none of the primary characters have even a hint of an Irish accent.
This old horse of a movie has run it’s course so many times over the years it’s begging for someone to finally put it to rest, and somehow it’s got enough charm to warrant another ride.