This is a typical, almost predictable comedy of errors, its popularity undiminished as generation after generation discovers its simple, almost naive beauty:
A young man meets a girl on a summer weekend trip. It's love at first sight. Overwhelmed, the two flirt clumsily and depart after hastily arranging a date, but then realize that all they know is each others' first names, Costas and Alice. They are both unable to make the date, and resign to the pain of never meeting each other again. So they get to meet again, by chance. He is a Navy cadet, and she is the Cadet School commander's daughter, and they bump on each other at the Cadet school ball. Except there's no time: the cadets are sailing on a training trip next morning. Alice cannot wait all summer, and she is not the kind of girl that will think twice about rules and regulations. If she can charm anyone with a giggle and some eyelash work, then her father's subordinates are a piece of cake. And so she does, sneaking her way aboard the warship, hiding in a lifeboat and anchors away. When the cadets find her, they dress her up in uniform and smuggle her into their sleeping quarters. They are almost caught, but get away with it as they have arranged to steal the commander's glasses; without the glasses, Alice has told them, he can barely see his nose. Now they need to smuggle Alice out of the ship at the next port of call, but alas, the officers have sensed something's wrong. People have overheard female singing, or so they thought at the time, Alice's clothes have been found in the lifeboat, and the commander is positive these are his daughter's clothes. The cadets try to smuggle another dress on board, and get caught. The commander realizes that his daughter is actually hiding on the ship when a telegram from his wife notifies him that she is missing. At the second port of call Alice finally disembarks dressed as a cadet, but soon enough she and Costas, along with their accomplices, are frogmarched to the commander. So are his new glasses. Mystery solved, excuses abound, bring the firing squad. Nothing but the severest punishment will do for those two. Why, he'll have them hitched by their necks from the main mast. And sure enough, as in any Greek comedy finale worth its name, they are hitched and down the church steps, flower petals flying, and the conniving cadets, resplendent in their dazzling white uniforms, form an arch of gleaming swords for them to walk under as bride and groom.
A trifle? Of course! But there's more. First, there is the aroma of an older, almost idyllic age. Athens (and Piraeus) are beautiful, spotless, people are genteel and smartly dressed, they smile and laugh, and their manners are impeccable. They radiate the feeling that bad times are gone forever, and the best is yet to come. The script by Alekos Sakellarios is so simple, it almost winks at the viewer as to what's coming next. Beach balls are no longer in fashion, but any Greek girl knows that the best pickup line she can use on a guy is Alice's fake threat: "Hey, you pirate, (that's) my beach ball!" In other words, I'm Alice, you are Dimitri Papamichail, we just met by the sea, then we'll go donkey-riding and singing under the pine trees, and then we'll be all dressed in white, holding hands under an arch of silver swords. Walter Lassaly's photography is flawless, crisp postcard colors and expert framing, a feast for the eyes. Manos Hadjidakis' music is timelessly joyous, and it's no accident that all three songs Alice sings, "The Little Donkey", "Full Speed Ahead", and "The Seagull", are so well loved to this day. There's hardly a Greek Navy draftee that has not or will not be teased by his friends: "Full speed ahead and come what may/ Full speed ahead, do you own thing/ Full speed ahead before youth flees/ Full speed ahead, for life is short."
Then there is "The Seagull", a celebration of Greek songwriting if there ever was one. The lyrics by that master artisan of words, Alekos Sakellarios, are probably his best ever, a tale of young love told like a story for kids. How the moon fell in love with the silver leaves of the poplar, how the butterfly fell in love with the red geranium, how the seagull fell in love with the fishing boat. O that I should glow like a poplar leaf in the moonlight, o that I should blush like the geranium when the butterfly hovered by, o that my heart should go aflutter like a sail in the breeze. As for Manos' music, well, his unique gifts are well known. What impresses me is how everything fits together. His orchestration is made to sound as an improvised ensemble the cadets would put together on a ship, some whistling here, a harmonica there, spoons and forks beating the rhythm on a helmet, a sweeping, lilting tune on -what else?- 5/8, that seeps right down, and some clumsy dancing, exactly like klutzy guys would dance with steam tubes almost touching their heads and treacherous railings lurking to make them trip over.
And then there is Alice. If she had a last name other than Vougiouklaki, it would be Peach. A girl like a juicy peach, all plump and bursting, a girl than no boy can resist, a daughter no father can scold, for she can chase clouds away and make the sun come out just by smiling. I don't think any Greek ever really admired her for the big star that she was. We just loved her because she looked and acted like everything that's good about life, and that was Alice, our Aliki. A girl who was always young, and who could command the weather with her laughter.
