Incredibly dated and oddly creepy, Pillow Talk is a vehicle for Rock Hudson’s good looks and Doris Day’s charm. Directed by Michael Gordon, the picture floats a truly weird story along with some outdated concepts about sex, women and relationships. It also features one of the most invasive and obnoxious soundtracks I’ve come across in quite some time.
This is 1950s gloss working its magic, attempting to convince us that there’s a reason for the attraction between the characters and that the good looks and charm of even the most obnoxious, creepy, sexist individuals should be enough for love. We’re supposed to fall in love with the coupling of Day and Hudson because the music says so, not because it actually makes any sense. In reality, what happens in Pillow Talk is quite sickening.
Day stars as Jan Morrow, a successful interior decorator. There’s a problem with her, though, as she lives alone and goes out and has fun. See, she’s much too old to be an independent woman with a good job and a nice apartment, so something’s gotta give. Her alcoholic maid (Thelma Ritter) makes sure that Jan knows her life is incomplete, too, which is always helpful advice when coming from someone whose drinking problem is played up for shiny chuckles.
Hudson is Brad Allen, a Broadway composer and “playboy.” He and Jan share a party line (Google it) and they don’t like each other much because Jan keeps wanting to make calls while Hudson is courting various women via telephone. One day, Brad sees Jan dancing and falls in love with her. He does what any normal person would do and invents a personality to court her so that she won’t know he’s the guy on the party line. Oh, and he also dupes a friend (Tony Randall) in the process while taking advantage of pretty much everyone who crosses his path. What a charming man!
That Brad completely fakes his way into Jan’s life is treated with the utmost respect. His square jaw and broad shoulders and good looks tell us that he’s doing the right thing, after all, and the annoying music reinforces the point. To make matters worse, Brad’s interest in Jan seems slightly predicated on the fact that his friend is in love with her. That piques his interest to discover who this delicate little flower might be and, before you can say “split screen,” we’re off on a road to romantic entanglement.
All of this might actually be hilarious were it not so creepy to think about. Jan has a streak of rebellion and independence that must be dealt with, which is, at least in part, why Rock Hudson’s character has to enter into the fray of fakery. When he essentially kicks her door down and abducts her towards the end of the picture, he’s doing the poor clueless dame a favour, after all, and she’s more than happy to oblige even if he has a creepy switch in his pad that locks the door. Try not to put too much thought into the fact that a policeman simply chuckles as Rock passes carrying a screaming Day, too. It’s the 50s.
The conception that draws this film to a close is downright disgusting. Day’s character is being “dealt with” because she had the audacity to right the wrongs against her in the way she knew how. Hudson’s Brad essentially gets everything in the end, while Day’s Jan is barefoot, pregnant and loving it. It is the ultimate reflection of vile, puritanical 1950s values and reeks of sexism and cruelty.
On top of all that, it’s actually a pretty horrible picture for other reasons. The Frank De Vol score is absolutely terrible, for one thing, and dominates each scene with its invasive need to pile instruments on top of other instruments. It’s one of the most obnoxious displays of music in a picture I’ve heard in quite some time. And the use of split screen and fade shots is just cheesy and tacky, too.
Overall, there’s really no good reason to see Pillow Talk. It only reinforces why progress is so important in today’s world and remains an example of a time and an attitude that keeps women in their places. It calls on a time when men were men, even if they were gay men pretending to be straight men mocking gay men, and has little to no redeeming value either as a film or as a piece of art.
0.7/10
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