|
The Merry Widow material, L'Age d'Or treatment. Hail Freedonia, howdy fascism, a detailed allegory from the opening image of fowl in a boiling pot. The strapped nation's benefactress (Margaret Dumont) insists on a new statesman, Rufus T. Firefly (Groucho Marx) enters his own inauguration via fire pole and lays down the law, "if you think this country's bad off now, just wait till I get through with it!" The ambassador from Sylvania (Louis Calhern) plans a takeover, Chico and Harpo are the double agents. What's a dictator to do? "I've got a good mind to ring his doorbell and run." The most concentrated barrage of Marxian mania, finessed by Leo McCarey's fusion of polish and abandon. From peanut peddler to Secretary of War, though not before a bit of private combat with the choleric lemonade galoot (Edgar Kennedy), Beckett takes note of the revolving hats. "Sir, you try my patience." "Don't mind if I do, you must come over and try mine sometime." No romance between Zeppo and the dancing Mata Hari (Raquel Torres) and no musical solos to soothe the beasts. (Harpo starts plucking a piano's strings, and the lid slams on his thumbs.) The barking tattoo and the military xylophone, disguises on top of disguises before Magritte's mirror—just the acme of a Dadaist flow blurring vaudeville and pantomime. Conflict cannot be avoided, "I've already paid a month's rent on the battlefield." The sustained piss on patriotism climaxes amid exploding shells and shifting uniforms, where cinematic continuity dissipates and hurled fruit is reserved for the dowager with the national anthem. "And remember, while you're out there risking your life and limb through shot and shell, we'll be in here thinking what a sucker you are." Sublime nihilism, surely Lester (How I Won the War) and Godard (Weekend) are born here. With Edmund Breese, Leonid Kinsky, and Charles B. Middleton. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |