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7.2/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 7.2/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. The Csardas Princess remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Honestly, you probably already know if you are going to like The Csardas Princess. If you get a kick out of black-and-white musicals where everyone is constantly singing about their feelings while wearing top hats, you will have a ball. If you need pacing that moves faster than a polite stroll through a garden, you are going to be bored to tears within twenty minutes.
It’s not trying to be The Champ or anything grounded. It is pure fluff, and that is fine.
Mártha Eggerth is basically the only reason this thing holds together. When she is on screen, the movie actually has a heartbeat. The moment she starts singing, the camera stops feeling so static and actually wakes up for a second.
There is a scene near the middle where the ballroom sets look like they were built out of cardboard and optimism. It’s oddly charming. You can see the stage roots coming through, and it doesn't try to hide that it’s all a bit of a performance. 🎭
The prince character is a bit of a wet blanket, isn't he? He spends half the runtime looking like he is worried about his tax returns rather than his supposed great love. It makes it hard to root for them, but then again, these kinds of movies aren't really about logic.
It reminded me a bit of the vibe in His Naughty Wife, just with more violins and less actual naughtiness. It is very polite. Almost too polite. Sometimes I wanted someone to just trip over a chair or mess up a line, just to see what would happen.
The music is catchy, though. I found myself humming the main theme while I was making coffee after the credits rolled. Is it a masterpiece? No. Does it feel like a cozy, slightly dusty antique store? Absolutely.
Don't expect much from the supporting cast. Most of them are just there to fill the frame and look expensive. If you are looking for deep character arcs, you are definitely looking in the wrong place. 🎻
