Sweet repose

How is W.C. Fields by the same turn both hero of the little man and at the same time slyly above it all? Both doormat and Übermensch? The way he talks in and of itself is the main attraction. His slow, deliberate way of feigning civility through his manner of speech is his passive aggressive means by which he weaponizes sarcasm. 

     And the way he mumbles his comebacks for only us to hear thereby makes us complicit in the joke. And this is what his best comedies are built upon.

 
It’s a Gift (1934, Norman McLeod) is a slapstick ballet led by one MR. HAROLD BISSONETTE in which his indomitable dignity is maintained through his cool as a cucumber surface façade. The comedy is derived from this Zen tranquility in the face of endless domestic aggravations, annoyances, and all types of everyday disturbances to the point it becomes poetry. 
     And It’s a Gift takes its time. Fields commands the pace of this thing, and you don’t rush the man. The narrative is composed of a series of set pieces that are all drawn out sketches. But it’s the one where he goes outside to sleep on the porch that sets the tone for the whole movie. Everything’s so calm. Quiet. And here we get some of the most creative sound design. The musicality in the rhythm of that conversation the neighbors are having, abstracted inane chatter as mockery. And the laundry line as mouse. How do these incidents seem to be such a bother to Bissonette, yet only ever seem to prove momentary obstacles that he quickly defeats, constantly thwarting any distractions life could throw his way?
     What makes Fields’ character work here so effective is that all of these attacks that in real life would raise a man’s blood pressure, put him in the hospital with a severe case of stress mismanagement, drive him insane, or otherwise break him down, become catharsis through his ability to dismantle them. And that’s the secret to life.

Who cares who stole the bonds murdered Wynant's ex-wife or Nunheim

Everyone knows cinema’s greatest power is to communicate through emotion. And what better emotion than love encapsulates our hopes, desires? Therefore what subject is best suited to manifest a projection of our dreams than romance? And isn’t the best part of being in love with someone making each other laugh? That’s what makes the screwball comedies of the 30s and 40s so perfect. Especially when what’s at stake is our true feelings. 

     But crime is a diversion. As a genre it doesn’t deal with the same stakes. In its own way it can be fun. But it’s as though because one gets tired of only melodramas, romance, women’s pictures and musicals, every once in a while a change of pace is sought. Mark it the same goes for westerns, action, and horror while we’re at it.

The Thin Man (1934, W.S. Van Dyke) is a whodunnit crime movie that really wants to be a screwball comedy. Except the couple have a seemingly healthy relationship and are happily married. Like the most dazzling screwball (and something it shares with the hard-boiled detective genre), the dialogue in The Thin Man is rapid-fire top shelf slang. As a blended genre it’s quite the cocktail. Even though NICK & NORA’S repartee isn’t as barbed as we might be accustomed to. 
     Nick (William Powell) might be the coolest character Hollywood ever created. If modern discourse in pop culture describes confidence as not caring about the outcome one way or the other, this dude gets it. The 50s delinquents, 60s hippies, 70s loners, 80s punks, 90s slackers were a different type of indifference: they were all anti-establishment, outside of society fringe. In The Thin Man, Nick is the very center of society.
     Think about the setting in this thing. Remember that line at that party when drunk Nora says something to Nick like: he has all the best friends and that’s why she loves him? The endless dinners, parties, and all manner of social gatherings where half New York knows Nick and shows up for are all full of the worst criminals alongside all of the most respectable types. Lowlifes and uppercrust are merged. It’s so refreshing how in this imaginary sphere there’s no class division whatsoever. It’s kinda cute. 
     And it’s not that Nick doesn’t care. Yes, as far as the narrative goes, for the first half of the movie what drives the plot is that Nick doesn’t want to take the case. He’s too cool to let his screwball comedy life turn into a noir. Or like Nora says, “Sleuthing isn’t much fun, is it?” He only finally gets involved because no one else can solve the case and he has a hunch he can figure it out himself.
     What’s also so hilarious about the end of the movie is that Nick invites every single possible suspect, even that entire family, to a dinner soiree and everyone shows up. Because Nick’s too busy hanging out, drinking literally every second he’s awake, with his hot wife who’s just inherited a fortune so he doesn’t ever have to work another day in his life that he can’t be bothered with solving the case. But what if he could manage to work it into just another clever diversion to entertain his party guests? Done.

A lingerie model named Mildred Plotka

At this point, and based on It Happened One Night (1934, Frank Capra), the screwball comedy foremost has that cut down your rival verbal jousting humor thing going for it. Maybe it’s because I’m Gen X, or maybe it’s because that was prevalent in my hometown growing up, but I find it endearing and relatable. It’s meant to be harmless. But how fun is that?

 

Twentieth Century (1934, Howard Hawks) is a toxic screwball comedy about emotional abuse played for laughs. And boy does it work. Going back through my favorite Golden Age Hollywood comedies, Twentieth Century stands out as an example of the entire work as a whole anywhere you land on the board the joke is mesmerizing.
     The structure of Twentieth Century is adept in that Hawks is able to craft controlled chaos that manages to be both pure anarchy and build to its climax. And Hawks is the first to capture the true spirit of madcap. He’s advancing comedy into the next age, hence the name of the express train and why the narrative boards it and no one is allowed off (including us). Anarchy as comedic device is also recognizable in the way the film’s bookended with the identical scene: nothing changes, we’re right back where we started.
     Another staple of screwball is the man and woman ideally matched as conduit of emotional telepathy for us to yearn for their romantic fulfillment. But think about how clever the variations are. In Twentieth Century, JAFFE turns LILY into a carbon copy of himself—once again the ideal match. I am still appreciating how creatively inspired this touch is. So now both leads are rotten to the core control freak divas with gigantic egos deranged by their fame obsessed destructive bents. This mutual desire is so dark when you think about it. And to be able to laugh at that is truly a riot. This is an atypical plot element for screwball: sex doesn’t drive the duo, abuse does.
     Jaffe is chronically manipulative, possessive, paranoid and prone to suicide threats. Lily is hostile, condescending, defiantly self-important, and prone to physical assault. (When that detective McGonigle returns with clothes torn, sleeves ripped, and welt from his forehead dripping blood after Lily found out about the wiretap, it’s played for laughs.) Domestic violence and suicide threats are constantly played for laughs. Yet it’s sweet and innocent. I’m not being sarcastic when I say I think it’s adorable when Lily says stuff like “If you ever bother me again I’ll get a gun and shoot you.”
     And in the end there’s no way we could particularly like Jaffe or Lily, but it’s impossible not to love the performances by John Barrymore and Carole Lombard. What’s sexier than a beautiful woman who’s also funny? She has that line like: we’re only alive between the curtains. They’re playing characters who can never experience real life because they’re only capable of performance. That makes me buy it even more.

brat

It Happened One Night (1934, Frank Capra) is a broad screwball comedy, completely lacking in subtlety, full of moralizing speeches, and a message, about a couple of narcissists who are supposedly redeemed in the end through their love for each other (but really marriage). Either that or it’s the ultimate delayed gratification sex comedy dressed up like a road movie.

     There’s also this kinky infantilization aspect to it. Ever notice the first time PETER WARREN admits to ELLIE ANDREWS that he has feelings for her is right after he’s told her the island story and deflected her, when she’s sobbing tears and he finds her asleep sucking her thumb? Or how his pet name for her is brat?

Screen chemistry, acting compatibility, call it what you will, but Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert are what keep me coming back to this movie time and time again. I don’t know how screwball comedies work or why, but I do know for certain that the man and woman non-stop trading insults is both hilarious and somehow signals I want them to be together. It’s nonsense. Illogical. It’s called screwball for a reason. 
     And they’re young. The way Peter’s editor mirrors Ellen’s dad in the sense of both being inciting incident catalyst that causes each to run away is kinda punk. The longer they cut each other down, the more they prove equally matched, the more something inside us desires for them to be together.
     By the time they get to the hitchhiking scene, something about that set piece always makes me feel like I no longer care where they’re going or what happens next. I’m right where I wanna be. Day exterior however many hours it takes for them to catch a ride, I am delighted to enjoy the moment—and that’s the secret of life. In that one scene that’s what It Happened One Night does that makes it so worthwhile. And when they hop in the car it’s that same moment the driver knows they belong together, mistaking them for being married; and we know they outta be. Now we’re past the point of no return. Nothing can keep them apart. Even when the driver turns out to be a road thief. Say, that’s where Showgirls (1995, Paul Verhoeven) must’ve got it. Perils of hitchhiking. 
     The comment made by the road thief also sets up way later the last scene in the movie’s twist. For he claims they must be married because of their incessant quarreling, however the wife at the auto court says “If you ask me I don’t believe they’re married,” and when we ask what could have caused this drastic turn in their mood, it could be true love, or it could be the walls of Jericho tumbling and them finally after waiting for it throughout the entire movie are about to get what they’ve really been waiting for.