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"Frightful ghosts all wearing stuffed shirts and mint-lined ties," thus the droll Ibsen mausoleum, cf. A Bill of Divorcement. A free man's mind rattles in the cavern of marble and crystal, while waiting in the living room he can't resist doing a backflip. The self-made bloke (Cary Grant) has a plan, make enough money to drop out of the rat race and enjoy his youth, it doesn't sit well with the socialite fiancée (Doris Nolan) with "a reverence for riches." Her sister (Katharine Hepburn) is far more on his wavelength, aware as she is of dreams squashed by compulsive luxury—a canvas under a sheet embodies the remains of her artistic aspirations, "don't disturb the ashes." Elevator to the playroom, an enchanted space for kooks and acrobats, the soused brother (Lew Ayres) drops by and picks up a banjo. "I suppose you realize you're a rather strange bird in these parts?" Philip Barry's play after the Depression and before the war, George Cukor's high-comedy staging is a master class in freshness and modulation. The bride is a dull, materialistic girl, all she wants for her beloved is a desk job at the bank owned by daddy (Henry Kolker), who worries about "a spirit of revolt." A wandering holiday appeals to the self-described "black sheep" of the family, Hepburn's offbeat electricity glides beautifully from flirtation into yearning. The engagement fête on New Year's Eve, "a funny shindig changed into a first-class funeral," the real party is upstairs with Edward Everett Horton and Jean Dixon emerging from a Punch and Judy theatre. (Their opposites are Binnie Barnes and Henry Daniell as "the witch and dopey," handily received with a Fascist salute.) Grant's graceful tumble in a tuxedo, Ayres' melancholy hangover, Lubitsch lessons perfectly absorbed. "Please, someone try and stop me." Russell's Women in Love is a surprising anagram. Cinematography by Franz Planer. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |