What's he got that I don't got?

Trouble in Paradise (1932, Ernst Lubitsch) is the greatest film of all time. Because Hollywood rules the world when it comes to getting rich by selling people their own dreams, and Trouble in Paradise is a timeless artifact that proves this can be done without being garbage. 
     What’s the first thing that happens in Trouble in Paradise? We’re in Venice, aka paradise, (to be read as the world of artifice, i.e. cinema itself). And a gondolier is taking out the trash and transporting it away in his trash barge. Why? What’s the meaning of this? The trash is commercial crap romantic movies. The trouble in paradise is artless product pandering to undiscerning mainstream audiences. But we’re not here for that. We deserve better. We deserve suite 253, 5, 7, and 9. And one of the most effectively hottest sex scenes in any movie, by way of some inserts of clocks.

 
At a light 80 minutes, Trouble in Paradise deftly crafts a narrative that is deceptively simple because of its clarity and focus; it’s made for us the audience, always with us in mind; and it’s always one step ahead of us. The most rewarding thing about Trouble in Paradise is trying to guess where its going. Somewhere in the middle of Act II, I asked myself whom I would rather Gaston end up with: MME. COLET or LILY? I couldn’t say.
     That is until Lily asks aloud “What does she got that I haven’t got?” That’s when I realized I am all for Miriam Hopkins in this thing. That’s when I realized this movie is speaking to me; through real emotions. That line is everything. A version of that line is also spoken by another character in one of the quintessential treatises on love, when TONY MONTANA asks MANOLO the same thing in Scarface (1983, Brian De Palma). It’s the logic of unrequited desire.
     And that’s the other thing that makes Trouble in Paradise so profound: it deals with real stakes. Yet what Trouble in Paradise is really saying is so pragmatic it could be mistaken as cynical: that sex is a crooked business transaction. And a limited one at that. That this partnership between man and woman is an endeavor best suited to 2 crooks who know that they’re using each other. Because nothing’s free in this world.
     It’s why I care about Miriam Hopkins’ character but not Kay Francis. Dumping the Miriam Hopkins character hurts. Why is it I’ve always been vulnerable to looking at the popular rich kids’ lives as something far more glamorous and exciting than my own, even after growing up? Why was it the same with the idealized romantic notion of true love? Because Mme. Colet embodies both of these poisonous flaws, along with ultimately being a depiction of overly sentimental Hollywood escapist fantasy. That’s why I know Gaston isn’t really in love with her.
     And that’s why after the denouement, even after the idealized perfect romantic paradise proves a hoax, and the grifters Gaston and Lily walk away with the money, the jewels, and each other, we know it won’t last long. It’s all too shaky. But we get to feel how happy we are that they have each other. That Miriam Hopkins’ character has found her dream of paradise. Because it’s also our dream, and that’s what Hollywood was built for.