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"Groteskes lustspiel" and then some, Ernst Lubitsch's smile in the opening credits kicks it off. In the massive Berlin palace the American oyster magnate (Victor Janson) has a circle of valets to serve him tea and wipe his mouth, "a fit of raving madness" finds his pampered daughter (Ossi Oswalda) in the demolished chamber, crying for a prince to marry. (Training for future maternal duties, she takes the dummy-baby out of the bathtub and holds it upside down to dry.) The matchmaker (Max Kronert) is introduced negotiating with a giantess, who doesn't think much of his cross-eyed candidate. "At that rate, they all have little imperfections." The impoverished prince (Harry Liedtke) improvises a makeshift throne in his flat and sends his colleague (Julius Falkenstein) to meet the heiress, precipitating the malentendu. Vulgar luxury, phony nobility, the switcheroo of marriage, all grist for Lubitsch's satirical mill. The couple on the carriage, before and after exchanging vows: "I was in the front!" "Yes, we weren't married then." Geometric patterns one year before Caligari, they're mainly for skipping along when bored in the waiting room. "A foxtrot epidemic" during the wedding ceremony mixes aristocrats and servants and literally splits the screen (and gives a glimpse of Curt Bois as the zealous bandleader), nothing of interest to the famished groom at the dinner table. (Meanwhile, the real prince makes do with pickled herring at home.) The ultimate meet-cute is between a hangover morning and the Multi-Millionaires' Daughters Association Against Dipsomania, "a boxing match will settle the matter." The happy couple is framed in a keyhole-shaped iris, the winking patriarch is impressed at last, cf. Walsh's Me and My Gal. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |