September 19, 1959 — the head of the Soviet Union came to see how the main workshop of the American dream was built — and saw women's underwear. Nikita Khrushchev's visit to 20th Century Fox studios was supposed to be a demonstration of openness, a gesture of goodwill in the midst of the Cold War. Instead, it turned into an ideological shootout through dance steps, where each raised skirt became an argument in the debate about whose system was better. Hollywood tried to sell capitalism to communism through sex and glamour. Khrushchev responded with moral condemnation — and both sides remained exactly where they started.
Spyros Skouras, head of 20th Century Fox, was a Greek immigrant, son of a shepherd who came to America at seventeen, sold newspapers, washed dishes — and rose to the top of Hollywood. For him, Khrushchev was the perfect target: living proof that the American dream works, and Soviet propaganda is a bluff. At lunch at Café de Paris on the studio lot, where 400 people were invited, Skouras launched a full-scale ideological attack.
He told Khrushchev his success story — from barefoot boy to tycoon — like a capitalism textbook. Nina Khrushcheva shared a table between Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra, while Marilyn Monroe, appearing in a tight black dress with a plunging neckline, became the main visual symbol of the meeting. Frank Sinatra, Elizabeth Taylor, Shirley MacLaine — the entire front row of Hollywood aristocracy lined up as decoration for Skouras's thesis: look, Nikita, this is what freedom gives you.
Khrushchev parried with stories about Soviet achievements, the space program, social guarantees. The argument went through interpreters, but the essence was clear without words: two self-made men proving to each other that their system better breeds winners. Skouras was selling individualism, Khrushchev — collectivism. Lunch lasted longer than planned, negotiations turned into bickering, and the studio was already preparing the main act of the program — a live filming of the musical Can-Can.
The Can-Can soundstage was not chosen by accident. The picture, based on Cole Porter's Broadway musical, told the story of late-19th-century Parisian dancers fighting for the right to perform the can-can — a dance considered indecent. For the studio, this was the perfect metaphor: freedom of expression against puritanical prohibitions, America versus the USSR in dance form.
Shirley MacLaine performed a number in which her partner dove under her skirt and emerged clutching her red pantaloons in his hands. Khrushchev sat in a box above the stage, and his reaction instantly became a story for the press. The Soviet leader made no effort to hide his irritation. In subsequent interviews, he called what he saw "pornographic" and "exploitative," declaring that such spectacles degrade human dignity and demonstrate the decline of capitalist culture.
American journalists seized on the formulations. According to widespread versions, different newspapers featured variations of a statement that the can-can shows "the backside of humanity" or "the rear end of humanity." Khrushchev's exact quote remained in question — the Soviet press published softened versions, the American press — more biting ones. Interpreters worked in real time, no transcripts were kept, and each editorial office could choose the formula that best fit the desired narrative. For Hollywood, this was a scandal that could be monetized. For Khrushchev — an opportunity to demonstrate socialism's moral superiority over the corrupt West.
The problem is that Can-Can only hit theaters in 1960, almost six months after the visit. It's impossible to causally link the fuss around Khrushchev with box office receipts — the picture got mixed reviews, grossed almost what it cost, but didn't become a blockbuster. The studio tried to exploit the scandal in advertising, but proving that it was specifically the Soviet leader's condemnation that brought audiences to theaters is impossible. But the visit remained in the chronicles as one of the most absurd moments of the Cold War: when diplomacy turned into a discussion of women's underwear.
Khrushchev wanted to go to Disneyland. It was one of the program items that the Soviet delegation discussed with the American side in advance. The park opened in 1955 and became a symbol of postwar American optimism — technology, entertainment, family values in one package. For Khrushchev, a visit there would have been a gesture: the USSR is not afraid to show its leader capitalist utopia.
Los Angeles Police Chief William Parker stated that he could not guarantee the safety of the Soviet delegation in Disneyland. Formally, this sounded like concern for the guest, in reality — like a political decision. Parker was known for tough methods and anti-communist views. The refusal was justified by logistics: open space, thousands of visitors, impossibility of controlling the perimeter. Khrushchev took this as an insult and publicly let loose everything he thought: what kind of cholera epidemic is raging in Disneyland, what gangsters and police are there, what should he do then — kill himself?
The cancelled trip became a symbol of the tension of the entire visit. The US was trying to show openness, but every step was accompanied by paranoid security measures. Khrushchev wanted to see America from the inside, but got a carefully filtered version of reality. Disneyland remained a forbidden zone — not for ideological reasons, but for police security considerations, which was even more absurd. 20th Century Fox studios, on the other hand, became an accessible venue where a spectacle of controlled openness could be staged. Only instead of attractions, they showed a dance with red underwear — and this turned out to be more explosive than any carousel ride.
Marilyn Monroe at the lunch was not just a guest — she was a weapon. The studio knew that Khrushchev would meet the most recognizable faces on the planet, and built a delegation of stars as a demonstration of force. Frank Sinatra sat a few seats away from the Soviet leader, Elizabeth Taylor smiled for cameras, Shirley MacLaine awaited her entrance on the soundstage. This was a living exhibition of the capitalist dream: people who had made fortunes on their faces and voices, becoming richer than most Soviet ministers.
Khrushchev was not a naive tourist. He understood that this was a production, a theater in which every smile was part of the script. But he played the same game: publicly admired Monroe's beauty, shook hands with actors, demonstrated that a Soviet leader could hold his own with Western celebrities. In a sense, both sides were trading images — the studio was selling glamour, Khrushchev was buying legitimacy.
The problem is that this deal only worked on camera. Off-camera, Khrushchev considered everything he saw decadence, and Hollywood producers — a commercial asset. Spyros Skouras hoped the visit would open the Soviet market to American films. Khrushchev returned to Moscow with stories about the moral decay of the West. Neither side got what it wanted, but both profited from media coverage. The dream factory produced another product — this time with the participation of the general secretary. Only they couldn't sell it in the USSR.
20th Century Fox studios calculated that Khrushchev's visit would be a PR triumph: a world leader on the set of a Hollywood blockbuster, stars, glamour, freedom of expression. Khrushchev was supposed to leave impressed, the Soviet press — to write about America's cultural richness, and then the Cold War would warm up a bit. Instead, it turned into a joke: the Soviet leader publicly condemned what he was shown, called it vulgarity, and used it as proof of socialist morality's superiority.
Khrushchev, in turn, wanted to demonstrate that the USSR is not afraid of dialogue with the West, that Soviet man can look at capitalism without fear of being seduced. But his reaction to the can-can looked like a conservative grandfather's panic in the face of the sexual revolution. The American press mocked his condemnation, turning the Soviet leader into a symbol of backwardness and puritanism. No propaganda victory for socialism, no moral high ground — just a comic episode that Western media chewed over for weeks.
Can-Can became neither a diplomatic bridge nor a box office hit thanks to the scandal. The picture came out a few months later, got average reviews, and dissolved into the stream of 1960s Hollywood musicals. The studio tried to hint at "scandalousness," but audiences went for Cole Porter and Frank Sinatra, not for memories of Khrushchev. The visit remained in history not as an advertising victory, but as a curiosity — a moment when two systems tried to use each other for propaganda and both ended up with nothing. The Cold War continued, the studio made the next film, Khrushchev returned to rockets. The red pantaloons remained the only real result of the meeting.