Three models pool their resources to nab themselves a millionaire. But the premise is secondary to the A-list cast and their versions of femininity.

There is a difference between a hit and a masterpiece, as shown in the success of Jean Negulesco’s 1953 film, How To Marry A Millionaire. Written by Nunnally Johnson (yep, real name), the feel-good flick was one of the most successful box-office hits of the year despite being little more than a fluff-fest of beautiful costumes, attractive women, and a chance to watch three actresses marinate themselves in trademark personas. But that’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay, because the lack of nuance or, dare I say, purpose, allows the viewer 95 minutes to enjoy Marilyn Monroe nailing dizzy innocence, Lauren Bacall staying in her lane with cool-but-dignified, and Betty Grable bringing an earthy sweetness to the trio. The premise is simple: three models use their wits (and sell their piano) in a bid to live a life that screams “disposable income.” The overarching details may require an “adjusted for inflation” mindset, so replace “millionaire” with “billionaire” and “sell their piano” with “flog their Amazon shares” and you’ve got the idea.

Let's start with Maz. No one does "sexy space cadet" quite like Monroe, and How To Marry A Millionaire gives her the opportunity to showcase her breathy, bungee-jumping-baby voice while slamming into furniture. Playing the role of Pola Debevoise, Monroe proves why she is THE Blonde, with unsurpassed charm and an ability to warm the cockles of the heart. “Men aren’t attentive to women who wear glasses,” she claims, resulting in the kind of G-rated slapstick that would make the French buckle at the knees. But with her quintessential “who, me?” expression, it’s a masterclass in ditz. In a less street-smart precursor to Lorelei Lee, Monroe's hunt for the juiciest bank balance is oddly charming and never at the expense of her innately good nature.

If her interactions are more about sussing out property portfolios than personality, it's done with an innocence that has little to do with airs and graces. J. Stewart Merrill (Alex D’arcy) is the object of her attention, rocking an eyepatch and thin mustache that screams "I tie women to railway tracks." Apparently the getup isn’t enough of a giveaway for our bachelorette, and it takes a tete-a-tete with her proudly-spectacled landlord, Freddie Denmark (David Wayne) to give her a crash course in reality. Revealing Merrill to be as on the level as an M.C Escher staircase, Pola wastes no time in putting on her glasses (all hail symbolism) and deciding that her near-sighted companion is a bit of cutie patootie. With the relief of a bullet dodged, she rests her head on her soon-to-be husband’s shoulder, a heartbeat away from whispering, "That'll do, Pig. That'll do."

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Moving swiftly along to Betty Grable, Loco by name and nature. Salt of the earth, bang-up for a chat, and with an insatiable appetite, Loco’s cuddly disposition lures men from Bergdorfs to Broadway, ready to carry shopping bags and pay for her groceries. It’s clear that her unbridled sunshine isn’t a good fit for Millionaire’s Manhattan elite, but there is a certain satisfaction to be had watching her remain true to her dirty-water dog and a roll-in-the-hay earthiness while maneuvering a relationship with bloated philanderer, Waldo Brewster (Fred Clark). Brewster's tetchy self-satisfaction is no obstacle to Loco and her determination to bag a fella, but being struck down with measles puts a serious question mark over the plan.

With her would-be lover more concerned about his own health and reputation, it's up to a sexy park ranger, played by Rory Calhoun and his limitless eyebrows, to nurse her back to health. The tables soon turn, and with Brewster bed-ridden, Loco opts to take on the role of Florence Nightingale: Good Time Gal. With love in her heart and a glimmer in her eye, she tends to the poor sod as one who knows there's a new bit of crumpet waiting for her on a snowmobile. However, the revelation that the good-hearted and handsome ranger is only wealthy in a New Age sense (rich in happiness, affluent in the connectedness with nature, yada yada yada) is a devastating kick in the teeth. Thankfully, Loco's spirited desire for happiness and fetish for eyebrows, along with Calhoun's genuine affection and sterling ability to forgive the woman for being a complete brat wins out.

Rounding out the trio is Ms. Bacall. Not a natural fit for comedy, but using her coolness to good effect, Betty B plays the ringleader of the group, Schatze Page. Acquiring their apartment and orchestrating a plan to nab the happily-ever-after by means of financial security, Schatze sells her furnishings and approves (or disapproves) of suitors according to her strict criteria. The first rule in the House of Schatze is all about appearance. The fact that the apartment contains little more than a folding chair and a tray of biscuits is no obstacle to dressing like the wife of a millionaire, as she insists “gentlemen callers have got to wear a necktie,” before abruptly closing the door on casually-dressed do-gooder/ love-interest/ secret millionaire Tom Brookman (Cameron Mitchell). Not the most endearing woman in a tea-length dress, but as the purveyor of sage one-liners like “wealthy men are never old,” she has a certain charm. Also, Schatze Page is on a mission, with neither the time nor money to fall into the trap of civility. “If we begin with characters like him, we may as well throw in the towel,” she states, barely willing to make eye contact with Brookman and his open neckline. One also gets the sense she could and would drop the women like hot potatoes, referring to them as “bubble heads” and never once impressed by their ability to lure men into heavy lifting.

In fact, the little despot has the audacity to sink her claws into one of Loco's finds, a true gent and millionaire to boot, J.D Hanley. Her judgment of her housemates is valid in the sense that they succumb to the charms of Average Joe before she does, but it’s still a shame that their worship of her as "the most intelligent person (they) ever met" isn't reciprocated as it would be in a film about sisterhood. But this ain’t Thelma And Louise, and Schatze wants that joint bank account come hell or high water. This tunnel vision is the most disconcerting element of the Schatze character, resulting in her coldness towards those who don't come with necktie and credit. Even in the vignettes of her eventual, under duress dates with Brookman, the routine of being a curt and mean little so-and-so become tiresome, and are hardly offset by the inevitable kissing. Quite frankly, he should’ve ended up with one of the others. There is another side to her, however, as displayed in her tenderness and genuine interest in Hanley. One gets the sense she wants to know as much about J.D the man as much as J.D the millionaire, so it’s a shame that these glimmers of humanity are bastardized by a lust for financial freedom and pathological need to stick to the plan.

It is an odd throuple to be sure, and the idea that this trio could work together, let alone inhabit the same apartment is a greater stretch of credibility than Bacall’s second act blouse. However, it’s not only the women who seem to have been painted with the finesse of a sledgehammer. The men of Millionaire are varying degrees of cad, with even the protagonists falling into boxes of either dodgy or feeble, leaving the audience aware of the intention, but rather uninvested. The notable exception is William Powell, who brings a gravitas to his aging oil baron/ multiple ranch owner. Powell presents a man of wealth but also refinement, a moral and upstanding citizen who ultimately sacrifices his own happiness to allow Schatze another shot at her own. Although he evokes a warmth and sympathy that makes an audience wish for him to get the girl, upon closer inspection he may have dodged a bullet.

Julia is a writer for Collider with a penchant for peanut sauce, Savage Garden, and the great outdoors (provided she's observing from indoors).

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