Life With Father

Tomorrow is Father's Day and we'll be doing a yin-yang on the subject this weekend. "Good Dad" today. "Bad Dad" tomorrow.

Although today is traditionally "Take Out the Trash" Day, we'll forgo it for Good ol' Dad.

Life with Father (Michael Curtiz, 1947) "Oh, GAD!" Another one of those movies I've always had the opportunity to see but never did. A perennial for local television stations to have in their "libraries" for weekend programming (this was back in the day when local stations didn't fill their schedules with info-mercials), I had plenty of chances to catch this one on the tube, (and I would for fifteen minutes—tops—then move on) but I never did. My bad. This one needs to be taken in in one sitting, (preferably in a theater because the Technicolor is breath-takingly sharp), telephone off, and at full attention.

"I am the character of my household!" booms Clarence Shephard Day, as he's choosing the latest in a long line of maids, which he has chased out of his employ in the last few months, many of them in tears and some in hysterics. Truer words were never spoken. He is the titular patriarch of Life with Father, from the hit Broadway play,* based on the remembrances of Clarence Day, Jr. of turn-of-the-century living with a father-figure who paces slowly in his own grooved path. William Powell plays the role, one he actively petitioned for.

It's a charming film, full of easy irony about the mores and prejudices of the time, where male pomposity poses as dignity, and more separates people than unites them—easy excuses for keeping things nice and orderly on the surface, while underneath, they are broiling with chaos that is easily ignored and denied.   Clarence Day, Sr. denies at the top of his lungs, and his monologues—against politics, taxes, unnecessary expenses, and organized religion (organized against him, it seems)—built individually in intensity and volume, are performances for an audience of one—himself. His barely suffering wife (played by Irene Dunne as if she were singing the entire role) has more influence over him than he is willing to admit, or recognize...or even remember. And his kid's are "mini-me's" of him, all boys, all carrot-tops, and as they age they morph further into miniature versions of The Old Man, down to his expletives and bluster.

Michael Curtiz directs formally and breezily, with his actors performing at top gear, and the director altering pace in editing and filling the frame with as much set decoration as it can hold.

The material doesn't need much else. It's strongly forced, comically subtle and has an undercurrent of mature content, that you just don't see in movies nowadays. Life with Father is from a far subtler era in which sub-texts flew over kid's heads, while the adults exchanged knowing glances and suppressed chuckles (that way you don't have to explain it to the youngsters with a simple "you'll understand some day").

And the sub-text is sex. Clarence, Jr. is growing up, voice changed (but his violin playing still has noticeable cracks) and he's noticing girls—and when it's Elizabeth Taylor as a visiting friend's daughter, one can't help noticing. At the time of the film, it was still early in Taylor's career and her performance is breathy, needy and comes from the same type of ingenue training that produced Marilyn Monroe's early performances. Clarence wants to impress Taylor's Mary, but he can't do so in Dad's ill-fitting hand-me-down suits. The excuse is they're practical, but, as he says, "I can't do anything in Dad's clothes." But, the truth is he gets...uncomfortable...in Taylor's presence. It's not bluntly said, it's danced around, implied, suggested, but never spelled out (as would be the norm today). It's hilarious, charming, and pays off in some ironically comic laugh-lines throughout the film.

Yeah, they "don't make 'em like this anymore." More's the pity. Life with Father deserves its classic status—for some reason, it's not in the National Film Registry—because it's smart, pointed...and hilarious.  

GAD!

* It still holds the record for the longest run of a non-musical stage-play.

My Man Godfrey

Turner Classic Movies' Star of the Month is William Powell, who seems to have fallen out of the consciousness and discussion of Great Hollywood Actors. I will avail myself of seeing a bunch of his films, as I've always found him astonishingly creative and real.

My Man Godfrey (Gregory LaCava, 1936)  Bill Powell isn't given nearly enough credit in Hollywood history.

Popular in his day, he worked just enough to maintain his reputation and dignity, then retired and kept to himself. But you watch him in something like My Man Godfrey—a not quite screwball comedy of the "The Rich, They are a Peculiar Lot" school—and you see him stretch a little bit, and definitely see him playing a different character than the familiar Powell persona (even an extended drunk scene is played differently than his pleasantly soused Nick Charles from the "Thin Man" series), but still retains that measure of insinuation that took every line of dialogue and made it spin on its heels. His character, Godfrey Pike, starts out as a bum living in a dump underneath the Brooklyn Bridge, where he's picked up by socialite-heads as part of a charity scavenger hunt for the idle rich.

He attracts the attention of Irene Bullock (Carole Lombard, formerly Mrs. Powell) probably because he's different, a genuine "find," and he does stick out like a sore, if well-manicured, sore thumb among the derelicts. Articulate and dignified, he's quietly worldly-wise, politely sarcastic (neat trick to pull off, that) and keeps a cool eye on the rich partiers for whom he's an oddity, a curiosity—like watching a car wreck—and slightly discounted, although he's  probably better than all of them as a human being. Mentored by Irene, he assumes a position as a gentleman-butler for her family, a job that's bested a steady stream of other men. But he does the job well, keeping his opinions to himself, the most sane man in a palatial asylum.

And an asylum it is, with the father (the foghorn-voiced Eugene Pallette, staple of Capra comedies) the only one with any sense (or schedule), and who has long given up on his family making any steps to adulthood. Mother (Alice Brady) is a drama queen, who can only be distracted by her protege Carlo (Mischa Auer) and other daughter Cornelia (Gail Patrick) has to fill her empty life with schemes and conspiracies.

But Irene is a dreamer. In Godfrey, she finds a competent supplement, practical, in marked contrast to her flibbertigibbet, caring to her carelessness.

Such a creature, alien to her environment, makes her fall in love with the old boy, while he still tries to make his way through Society, and back to the life he has previously abandoned.

It's all high-style and fast-paced. And even though Lombard's society gal is a comic cry-baby notched up to "11" on a scale of "10," she is leavened somewhat by the tolerating, sly performance by Powell—who insisted that Lombard, his ex-wife, get the part.

Powell was the epitome of well-mannered play-acting, while never, ever betraying a dull moment. He made style which—when done in the hands of amateurs can look confining—seem effortless, while also being insouciant, and fun.

Mister Roberts

Mister Roberts (John Ford, Mervyn LeRoy, Joshua Logan, 1955) Hollywood wanted to make a movie of the hit Broadway play that was a sensation for Henry Fonda, and Fonda wanted to make it—a labor of love. But, the studios thought Fonda (just shy of 50 years of age) might be a little too old for the lead, like twice the age he should be (they were thinking of Marlon Brando or William Holden). And then, there was an issue with the property—it was a bit too critical of the Navy and cast it in a less than inspiring light. The Admiralty-that-be was reluctant to grant its cooperation or to lend any of its ships or facilities to lend the film any verisimilitude as long as the film was anything less than respectful.

Enter John Ford. Ford had served in the Navy during World War II. He was a "friend" in Hollywood to the military and his captaincy of the production reassured the Navy brass that attitudes wouldn't get out of hand (and the uniforms would be correct). Ford would take care of the Navy.

As for Warner Brothers, Ford insisted that Henry Fonda—and nobody but Henry Fonda—would star in Mister Roberts. This put Warners in a bind. They couldn't make Mister Roberts without John Ford and John Ford wouldn't make Mister Roberts with anybody else in the lead. To compensate for Fonda's age, Ford cast older actors in key roles—James Cagney and William Powell—as well as members of his "stock company"—Ward Bond, Harry Carey, Jr., Ken Curtis and Patrick Wayne. All was set in place for a good shoot of a stage classic.

And then, things got messy. When Ford met Cagney at the airport, he greeted him with a snarling threat that they would "tangle asses." Cagney showed up a bit late the first day of shooting and Ford was ready to lay into him. Cagney had worked with the director before—the remake of What Price Glory in 1953—and knew he could be a tyrant on-set, and told Ford he was ready to fight and make good on his threat at the airport. Ford backed down. He knew he would get a fight from Cagney, but he threw his way of belittling actors onto Powell, which infuriated Cagney. "I would have kicked his brains out." said Cagney to his biographer, Doug Warren. "He was so goddamned mean to everybody. He was truly a nasty old man."

Then, Ford began to drink on-set. His command of the production was being challenged and he didn't like it. When he'd had a little too much, he would let Ward Bond oversee a shot. Early on, Henry Fonda, who'd won a Tony Award for Best Actor in the stage version, was unhappy with the script, and started to feel that Ford was indulging in too much slap-stick into a project that was a personal mission. A "clearing-the-air" meeting between producer Leland Hayward, Fonda and Ford escalated to the point where the director punched his star in the face. There was an apology, but the relationship between the two (they'd made pictures together) was forever fractured.

The movie, set during the last days of the second world war, tells the story of Lt. Doug Roberts (Fonda), stationed aboard the U.S.S. Reluctant (nicknamed "The Bucket" by the crew). A Navy cargo ship, it sails between harbors shipping supplies on time and efficiently thanks to Roberts' efforts as executive officer/cargo chief, a fact not lost on the ship's commander Lt. Commander Morton (Cagney), a badgering weasel of a man who enjoys the perks and accolades that their record entitles him to. The ship's crew is not much, but are loyal to Roberts, who acts as a buffer between the men and Morton.

But, Roberts is dissatisfied—he didn't join the Navy to shuttle supplies between "backwater" stations and currying favor with port commanders—he joined to fight for his country and persistently puts in for transfers to other ships in action, attempts Morton constantly sabotages to keep Roberts under his command—so he can enjoy the rewards of Roberts good efforts. For Morton, there is an added bonus—after a lifetime of being looked down upon in menial jobs, he gets to "dish it out" to the "smart college boy" Roberts. In order to get the men a much-needed liberty, Roberts promises Morton that he won't request any more transfers—the repeated pleas are making Morton look bad. But, when the men's activities get Morton a reprimand, he doubles down on Roberts and the crew, implying that Roberts has turned against them for a promotion. It proves too much for Roberts, who takes decisive action.

One can see parallels between what was happening in front of the camera and behind-the-scenes. A frustrated star, who was never satisfied with the film as compared to the stage version. A director who kept control over his productions through abuse. A supporting cast that soldiered on, despite the turmoil on-set—it would be Powell's last film, Cagney's last for Warner Brothers, and the launching of Jack Lemmon's career with a performance that won him an Academy Award for his horny, puppy-dumb Ensign Pulver.

Ford eventually was shipped out to Hawaii to dry out, then came a gall-bladder attack, necessitating a replacement by LeRoy, who screened Ford's footage and tried to shoot it the way Ford had, but LeRoy's appreciation of light isn't there. Once LeRoy had finished, Hayward and Fonda got the play's director, Joshua Logan, to re-shoot many of the scenes (probably a lot of the interiors). The result is a mixed bag of some breath-taking images, flat attempts to reproduce them, and rather perfunctory interiors that play like they're from another movie—you can tell the Logan scenes because nobody's sweating in them.

Take a look at this sequence of shots—all from the penultimate scene of the film. I don't know for sure, but I'm willing to say that the top shot of Lemmon—an exterior shot—is by Ford, and the two below it, are by LeRoy—interiors intended to look like exteriors and with the same actors in the same positions, but not as natural and somewhat stiffly arranged.

And Logan—here are some interior shots, with their vast expanses of unused screen space, and everything just a little too neat and tidy, the decks recently swabbed, and just a little too orderly to be believed they'd been lived in. While not exactly a Frankenstein's monster of a movie, the shift in presentation does get under one's skin and undermines one's appreciation. Mister Roberts was not the sensation it was intended to be—not as realistic, not as salty, not as controversial, and a far cry from the initial intention of author Thomas Heggen in both book and play. Fonda basically disowned it.

And what of Ford? He would take a couple months away from features to do a couple television films, and returned to Warner Brothers with one of his best—and some would say his greatest film—1956's The Searchers.

After the Thin Man

After the Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke, 1936) Follow-up to the popular The Thin Man, which took the Dashiell Hammett novel and characters and ramped up the entertainment value.  Although it has become the most popular of the series over the years (which might be due to the fact that the young and future star, but at the time MGM contract-player James Stewart is featured prominently in the cast), it suffers from a slight case of "sequelitis," with more arbitrary schtick—songs and production numbers that stick out like a milk-shake served in a speakeasy, much more attention and comic anthropomorphism attached to the dog, Asta—as well as making detective Nick Charles a perpetual lush (although there are flashes of the character's talents, as when after avoiding a low-life that has been tumbled down the stairs, he casually mentions "He has a gun under his left arm"). William Powell is an unsung, perhaps merely undersung, master of the throw-away and even though the performance is an amusing "drunk act," he manages to keep the character's thin veneer of dignity intact throughout the shenanigans, and the prim and unproper Myrna Loy lends enormous support in that regard by the obvious affection her character affords her husband.

But, still...we're talking Hammett here. Sure, "The Thin Man," the author's last novel, was lighter than the mystery-master's "The Maltese Falcon," or "The Glass Key," but the screenplay's authors, Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett* seem to have lost some of the original's dark roots, trading mystery for naughtiness, wit for "cute." I quibble here—after all, the movie-James Bond isn't really Ian Fleming's character, either—for the movie's a solid romp—Nick and Nora investigate another disappearance,** this time the disappearance of Nora's cousin Selma's good-for-nothing husband, which not only involves low-life's, but the other end of the spectrum in Nora's unproperly prim side of the family. 

Hi-jinks ensue, bullets fly (and complicate things while simplifying the cast), and it all ends with the "reveal" in a room full of suspects. Van Dyke keeps the thing moving by staying out of the way—there are long, long takes where the actors do such involved business and are merely cramming as much fun into the scene as possible that they make the current cut-and-snip style of acting and film-making appear stodgy (compare this to The Tourist,*** for instance).  

It's a fine time—save for some Asian racism that curdles the proceedings for a time—and another example of showing why "they don't make 'em like they used to" is a valid argument when it comes to movie-making quality.

* The pair also worked on the screenplays of Father of the Bride, Easter Parade, The Diary of Anne Frank, and It's a Wondeful Life—which, is extraordinarily impressive—all classics, all great, dense scripts.

** The first movie's disappearance was of "the thin man" of the novel's title, it didn't refer to the character of Nick Charles, at all.

*** Speaking of which, Johnny Depp and Rob Marshall are planning their own version of The Thin Man. One hopes that Depp doesn't overdo the drunk bit (as he is wont to do), and the casting of Nora will be absolutely critical.

Olde Review: The Thin Man

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a bit of a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

This Friday's ASUW films in 130 Kane are examples of "The Thriller," and they are W.S. Van Dyke's The Thin Man and Roman Polanski's Chinatown.*

The Thin Man (W.S. Van Dyke, 1934) First of all, let's clear up a falsehood: the name The Thin Man does not refer to detective Nick Charles as it has been thought, but to a murder suspect in the film. You have been informed, trivia fanatics!** 

Well, now the film. It was released in 1934 (approximately the time that Chinatown is set) and so the film will certainly appear dated, and this shows more prominently in some of the stereotyped "suspects," for instance the young couple that are usually included in the films of this period (they quite regularly disrupt Marx Brothers movies--which isn't the easiest thing to do!) But then, you might be surprised by some of the risque dialog, the very funny verbal sparring that goes on between Nick and Nora Charles, and the extremely light touch that inhabits what is supposed to be a murder mystery (the same thing was attempted in Murder on the Orient Express, but didn't work due to Sidney Lumet's heavy-handedness). The late James Wong Howe's expert cinematography provides the mystery. The loony script by Goodrich and Hackett, and the "let's-do-this-fast" direction of W.S. Van Dyke provide the seeming effortlessness of the humor.

And one can't ignore the superb talents of William Powell as the perpetually soused Nick Charles, or Myrna Loy, the woman with the iciest glare you could wish to see (or even Asta, for that matter). Effortlessness is their best asset. It is also the film's.

A thriller? No. But good? Yes! 

Broadcast on KCMU-FM November 11th and 12th, 1975

The Thin Man is, and always will be, an entertaining film. Based on Dashiell Hammett's last novel (some have speculated Nick and Nora were inspired by Hammett and constant companion, Lillian Hellman) it skirts the issue of alcoholism (the two drink CONSTANTLY but are always witty and entertaining--The magic of Hollywood) but other than that, it is one of the perpetual crowd-pleasers that came out of Hollywood's glamorous age.

Screening it again recently was interesting--it was remarked tha that all the female characters seemed to be semi-hysterical (they are) and that the costuming for the women never ceased to be flamboyant (it doesn't). I took note of James Wong Howe's amazing cinematography, especially his night shooting, and how the rhythm of the thing might be better served if there weren't insert shots of shocked reactions to bon mots. Still the best thing about it is William Powell's seeming ability to make things up as they go along, and Myrna Loy's vivaciousness and innate ability to play it straight no matter how outrageous.

* Ya wanna read about Chinatown, pally? Go here.

** But that's about as useful to folks calling it "The Thin Man" series, as it is to fans of Boris Karloff's Frankenstein. And...it's not entirely accurate.

Sherlock Holmes (1922)

Sherlock Holmes (Albert Parker, 1922) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's great detective (consulting) given the silent treatment with John Barrymore in the title role, based on the William Gillette play (which Gillette re-wrote after not liking Conan Doyle's original—and after reading Gillette's version, Doyle agreed!) that was the defining presentation of the character for folks who had never read the early stories.  

First things first, Barrymore is great, looking the very image of Holmes as seen in the original Sidney Paget drawings that accompanied the first publication of the cases in The Strand Magazine.  His Holmes is cunning, contemplative and very rarely wears a deerstalker. The story presents a complicated tale (actually several mysteries in one) spanning years of evil deeds perpetrated by Holmes' nemesis, Professor Moriarty (played by an actor with the wonderful name of Gustav von Seyffertitz) on the more young, innocent members of British society (including a young William Powell—this was his first film).  It's up to Holmes (and to a much lesser extent, Roland Young's Watson) to get to the bottom of the case.

Powell and Barrymore in the '22 Sherlock Holmes

It's based primarily on the first Holmes story "A Scandal in Bohemia" (which presents Holmes in full flower and deals with the one opponent he could not best and whom he came to admire, Irene Adler. But that's all changed here. There's no Adler, but instead the Faulkner sisters, both of whom Holmes becomes infatuated with, first in his youth at the the time of his first encounter with Moriarty, and later, after the one's sister's death, and the other sister's possession of her love letters that could result in scandal and repercussions for a European King's reign. But, it is Moriarty and his network of thugs and assassins that want to seize the letters. The extant Faulkner sister is merely keeping them hidden. And Moriarty is set on both getting the letters and assassinating Holmes, the latter done in rather melodramatic ways, luring him into a trap, or shooting him at 221B Baker Street.  

It's a silent film, the particulars told in title cards, which is problematic as Holmes, once coerced to reveal the methodology of his deductions, can be a verbose creature. So it falls on the title card authors to show the process in a kind of dense short-hand. Those moments are few and far between.  Mostly, it's standard melodramatic fare, without the Doyle back-stories that tie everything together, and explain the gears that set the whole thing in motion (This is done at the beginning and inserting Holmes into it). It's all pretty surface-stuff, befitting a stage presentation (although Parker manages to cross the Victorian era and motor car era in his production design), with Barrymore's performance—he was 40 at the time— breaking the silent tradition by being more interior, more cerebral, setting Holmes' detective apart from the usual over-emoting that was the tradition and chief weapon in communicating emotions during the silents.

Granada's Holmes, Jeremy Brett, used to talk about a conversation he'd had with Robert Stephens, who played the role in Billy Wilder's The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes, where Stephens commented "There's nothing there inside the character, just a big empty space that you must fill any way you can." Essentially, he's right. There are lots of Sherlock's who are bland and impenetrable—in fact, the BBC had a rough time with a revolving door of actors who couldn't live up to Brett's version, even when the actor was deathly ill, and didn't until the character was revamped in modern times and played by Benedict Cumberbatch. A "silent" Holmes makes the portrayal even tougher to pull off, as Holmes' theatricality is easiest portrayed with his voice and phrasings, weapons not available in silent films. But Barrymore still manages to make a memorable Holmes, if slightly diluted by a tendency to become romantically involved with his clients. Gillette did so in his play to win audiences and make Holmes a more romantic hero. And although it's slightly unnerving to see, Barrymore makes it acceptable.

Next Saturday: The elementary Sherlock Holmes.

The Last of Mrs. Cheyney (1937)

The Last of Mrs. Cheyney (Richard Boleslawksi and Dorothy Arzner, 1937) Remake of the 1928 stage adaptation with Norma Shearer and Basil Rathbone, this one has a little bit more of the star-wattage of M-G-M behind it with Joan Crawford (rarely better) as well as William Powell, Robert Montgomery, Frank Morgan, Nigel Bruce and Jessie Ralph. 

The movie starts stodgily with Montgomery's Lord Arthur Dilling meeting and becoming entranced with widower Mrs. Fay Cheyney (Crawford) on a transatlantic sail. He's intrigued that she takes a fancy to the equally rich, more elderly (and more susceptible) Lord Francis Kelton (Morgan), and keeps an eye on her when they disembark, for though he's smitten, he's curious to see if she might be a gold-digger.

She's not. She's an international jewel-thief in cahoots with Charles (William Powell), the man posing as her butler.  

It's hard to pin-point, but around the time the cast all gets together at the estate of Lady Embley (Ralph) after a charity event, the tone suddenly lightens and everybody, especially Montgomery, get several notches better. Now, at some point, the original assigned director Richard Boleslawski died of a heart attack, to be replaced by Hollywood's only working female director at the time, Dorothy Arzner, and while one is hesitant to say this is entirely due to a change in directors, it is unarguable that the film starts to take off, whereas before it has a strained and stuffy feeling to it. Maybe, it's the presence of Powell—though it's doubtful because Crawford starts to light up, too—maybe because the entire cast is pinging off each other, there's more cross-talk between them and more energy zapping between each and every player. Maybe it's the script because the last half is where the change-up's, turn-around's and surprises in character and situations are clustered, a perfect case of the tail wagging the dog (without a chase, explosion or clinch to be seen). But it makes one want to check out Dorothy Arzner, the lone woman in the field (besides Leni Riefenstahl) to be making films at the time. Not to be sexist or anything, but it does make a difference.  

Libeled Lady

Libeled Lady (Jack Conway, 1936) This must be a favorite of some programmer at Turner Classic Movies, as it seems to show up on its schedule every single month without fail. It is an M-G-M confection, designed to be another pairing of William Powell and Myrna Loy (they made fifteen movies together in all), whose chemistry in "The Thin Man" series guaranteed box-office rewards.  

There was another woman in the mix, however. Powell's off-screen love, Jean Harlow, wanted to be in the film as well, and it is at this point, one should explain the plot, as slight as it is.

Heiress Connie Allenbury (Loy) is accused by the sensational headline-seeking newspaper, The New York Evening Star of being the home-wrecker in a prominent socialite divorce. She isn't and so sues the paper for libel to the tune of five million dollars. This will break the paper and so managing editor Warren Haggerty (Spencer Tracy) tries to convince Ms. Allenbury to call off the suit, which she refuses to do on principle and out of spite. There's no way the paper can produce evidence to the truth of the matter, and no way that they can defend themselves against the charge. So, just like they did with the original story, they have to manufacture the evidence.

Haggerty calls in associate Bill Chandler (Powell), former reporter, to produce the evidence by having him stalk Allenbury, harrass her and serial-seduce her so they can catch her in "the act" (well, of course, and I'm a little brutal in my description of the plan because it is the modern-day equivalent for what was considered a "screwball" situation in a 30's comedy—it actually shows what a creep Tracy's character is when you think of it like that). This necessitates Chandler getting married to Haggerty's fiancée Gladys Benton, so that there will be "another woman" wronged by any potential romance between Chandler and Allenbury. It's a gambit Gladys resists violently, then eventually favors because she's been engaged to Haggerty so long she thinks he may have forgotten where he kept the receipt for the ring, and maybe this might jar him into matrimony, and also pay more attention to her than the paper (Haggerty suffers from "Walter Burns Syndrome"). That's a lot to hang on a hair-brained scheme based on deceipt, but I suspect these people drink a little.

So Chandler goes off to try and woo the heiress, a team of photographers in tow to catch anything "in the act." But, Connie proves herself immune to his charms...especially when he's putting on airs, as he suspects is necessary with Connie. She rebuffs him. She finds him more attractive for his grace when he's exposed in his own flummery, like pretending to be a great "angler" and ending up fish-less, soaked to the bone and looking like a fool. As she's inclined to not give gold-diggers the time of day, this willingness to look like a total fool has some appeal. The plot wouldn't go anywhere if it didn't. 

And let's face it, it's William Powell. Even if she weren't married to him in an alternate movie series timeline, the pairing of Loy and Powell seems only natural. Her sophistication combined with a cynic's viewpoint (played charmingly, of course) was the perfect off-set to Powell's breezy charm (with a boy's sense of impropriety. Once established, Powell never gave a line reading that didn't seem to originate straight from his brain (something that can be said for Tracy, as well). Both actors could play variations on their themes, but only had to make minor tweaks in inflections and manner to make the part their own, once engaged.

The revelation here is Jean Harlow. She crackles in her role, with a natural gift for comedy. She had wanted to play the Loy part, the studio balked, and she compromised, taking the less romantic role (with less time with Powell), but more material to sink her teeth into. Her Gladys is a hoot, and her confrontation scene with Powell and Loy, where the two co-conspirators try to out-lie each other is screwball gold.

The cast was aided by one of M-G-M's more utilitarian directors, Jack Conway, who (according to Loy) usually had one direction: "faster." Conway doesn't do anything fancy, except make sure the material was optimized and the actors in focus. Conway was not an "auteur" with fancy camera moves and direction that called attention to itself.  But he was a stalwart, who brought things in on time and on-budget and that could cut reasonably well. The budget was up on the screen and that pleased his studio bosses—who liked to think they were in control of the movies and the bottom line. And he kept the actors happy, which may be the secret to good comedy in the first place.