sete noivas, sete irmãos
Those were the days. The nineteen fifties.
When men were men (unless they were gay and feared prosecution and persecution) and girls were girls (unless they happened to get pregnant out of wedlock and got sent to "homes" to have their babies, be treated like dirt then have the babies taken from them) and the whole world knew where it was (either in fear of being invaded by the Americans or the Commies).
When "open-mouthed" kissing wasn't allowed to be shown in films (and I spent my entire childhood thinking that that strange dry but overly passionate kissing they did was an acceptable part of sex) and it was still good to be seen as wholesome in the public eye (otherwise McCarthy would come and get you).
When women had 13" waists (and squished innards) and men still dressed like men, even when they were dressed as pirates... with manly chests (did you ever see those flabby things they called manly in those days?) and shirts tucked into tight trousers was still cool (and the big man bottoms that went with them).
And when political correctness (other than of the anti-pinko sort) hadn't even been dreamt of and it was acceptable to make a film where the nice wholesome characters, (farmboys, ruddy, with ginger hair... was that REALLY desirable, even in the fifties?) decided to get themselves some women by copying the Romans' rape of the Sabine women (that could only be a Tarantino or Scorcese flick these days).
Ah. the fifties. Ah, Howard Keel and his big bottom and pencil moustache (though no-one could top Errol Flynn or David Niven for the pencil moustache). Ah, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.