I'm in love with love

The Awful Truth (1937, Leo McCary) is a divorce screwball comedy that flourishes as a romantic ideal wherein adultery and dishonesty can make for a great marriage. It’s got a message too: in marriage, if you’ve lost faith, you’ve lost everything. Yet in this film, this married couple prove the exception to that rule.

     Theodora Goes Wild (1936, Richard Boleslawski) established Irene Dunne’s screwball vitality. Enter Cary Grant. (Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn are the funniest actors and have that affected manner of speaking that feels so far removed from real life but precisely why I love them.) Throwing Irene Dunne and Cary Grant together in the whole Manhattan formal tuxedos, gowns, and posh penthouses milieu delivers more production value than any billion dollar IP cashgrab ever will. They have a tangible onscreen chemistry.

     The narrative opens with a custody case for their dog. How screwball is that? Wait is it absurd or do people really do that? Nevermind. Who cares? Thusfar I’ve been touting the fundamental elements in screwball are deception, mistaken identities, misleading appearances, false assumptions; so, a divorce between a couple who’ve chronically lied and cheated on each other makes for a marriage made in screwball heaven. When our story begins, there’s 59 days left until the divorce is final, the ol’ ticking clock plot device. That’s 59 days for them to realize how perfect they are for each other, as we do. They’re too charming and cool for anyone else.

     Rebound is the bunk. Ralph Bellamy plays this hick whom LUCY WARRINER (Dunne) has no business with whom JERRY WARRINER (Grant) derisively refers to as Buffalo Bill, ongoing gags poking fun at the Midwest. Buffalo Bill’s mother in law hears the tea about Lucy being promiscuous and subsequently disapproves of their engagement. So after this plot twist we have to wonder how can Lucy and Jerry wind up back together if they’ve already failed at their marriage? 

     The answer is when Grant has that amazing pratfall out of his chair in the concert hall and we laugh, as does Lucy. The other thing I’ve been touting about screwball is making each other laugh is true love. Now we’re past the point of no return. (Oh yeah I forgot to mention that scene with Grant whipping that dude’s ass with jiu jitsu. Yes really.) So we get the key sentiment of the movie when Lucy says “I’m still in love with that crazy lunatic and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

     Preceding the Act II break the sequence with Dunne hiding the hat and the dog after it is iconic. In real life I don’t even like dogs. I love certain dogs. MR. SMITH is one of them. When that dog finds the hat it exceeds beyond my capacity to imagine what a scene can do with a cute animal.

There’s the 2 men in her bedroom farce that takes us into Act III. And here, when Irene Dunne has to masquerade as Grant’s sister, combining the whole Dixeibelle thing with her quasi Grant impersonation wins her the benefit of the doubt and prevents us from ever again doubting her well-earned comedic status again. And the plot twist affording her the opportunity to deliver such a hysterical turn is adept because she’s getting back at Jerry for his Buffalo Bill hijinks by sabotaging his rebound. So where are we headed? Will this be a spite marriage once they inevitably reconcile? Probs. Also very screwball here drunk driving, taunting and scamming the police. Anyways. The last scene in that cabin is hot. We know when Dunne in bed gives that inviting come hither look sex is what’s to save the marriage. 

     The black cat on the bed is harbinger. The faulty lock Lucy says is “not so practical but I guess it’ll serve its purpose” is metaphor for infidelity. The film’s saying bad luck and society’s definition of immorality can’t keep us apart. 

     Big problem with the ending is do people change? If they lied and cheated on each other in their marriage, what led to that? Furthermore what did they do to address it? What’s to say it won’t happen again? Or do they care? I know I know. They’re selling us the dream. True love overcomes. But why can’t I shake the feeling this time it won’t last? This narrative seems cynical like because this couple failed at marriage that makes them an ideal match for marriage? In screwball anything goes. Don’t overthink it like me.

     

One should always listen to someone when they say goodbye because sometimes they're really saying farewell

Stage Door (1937, Gregory La Cava) is an ebullient woman’s picture comedy-melodrama tearjerker that conceals its darker subject matter which it gradually reveals as an indictment of systemic abuse by the combine of the theatrical scene in New York threshing away the many hopeful innocents that seek success in its blades. It’s also got a boarder who wears a cat drooped down her neck like a shawl. 

     Wake up. Finally a real star. Kate Hepburn kills. She’s got the force of a man but she’s not masculine like a say, Rosalind Russell. Hepburn plays TERRY RANDALL, new girl moving into the Footlights Club, a theatrical boarding house for broke aspiring actresses, and it’s full of ‘em. A young Ann Miller is so cute in this prototypical Mulholland Drive. Plucky Ginger Rogers holds her own as Hepburn’s nemesis. My empathy pours out for Lucille Ball as the girl who has to go on dates with some lumber men from Seattle who knew her from her childhood whose company she suffers because she needs the dinners they pay for. 
     The volley of dialogue fired off in this place is pandemonium and you think you’re in for a treat. But no. It turns into something else entirely.
 
The other half of Stage Door emerges when Adolphe Menjou as TONY POWELL turns out to be this predatory casting couch impresario who makes you miss Oscar Jaffe. Great detail in its poignancy is after Ginger Rogers’ character sobs her way out the door when we see Powell immediately begin flipping through his little black book.
     But it’s really this KAY character who overshadows the rest of the picture. Every time I watch this movie, as soon as Kay walks in that door for the first time the way her light is dimming to a flicker weary struggling to stay hopeful, I cry. I also cry when we first meet MISS LUTHER because of her age and how she still hasn’t given up and how she pathetically keeps her rumpled theater notices from some long forgotten distant past. Stage Door is a three hanky picture. Kay floats through in some melancholy fugue as if she belongs in a different movie altogether. It’s so sad that quick line never mentioned again or elaborated on when Kay says “except someone I’ll never go back to” back home traumatic pain. Although Miss Randall steals her part, it’s more complex than that. Because once Kay took a part from some other actress. And Miss Randall didn’t earn her opportunity, it was bought for her through nepotism. Kay and Terry are both such great examples of an active protagonist. In this movie neither of them would mean anything to us without without the other. That’s impressive writing.
     Can’t shake the haunting sequence where Kay walks up that gothic lit staircase hearing voices. Kay’s broken. Her mental illness is pure psychological horror. And the climax is heavy. Devastating. “What’s more important than a career?” says that louse Powell. Stage Door is really about young women’s hopes and dreams. It’s really about our own hopes and dreams. And these are the types of movies that know how to be the most heart wrenching. When Powell says "oh she's still around" about Kay that's such a punch in the gut. It stays with you. Yet again from this period it makes one ask how many of these comedies end right back where they started? We get the message.

The Bull of Broad Street

It becomes apparent immediately that what sets Easy Living (1937, Mitchell Leisen) apart from most movies that are in the business of sketching a narrative, is that instead its emphasis is on individual sketches complete in and of themselves—nuanced precision plot points. Furthermore, Easy Living is a screwball comedy where what drives it isn’t sex, it’s money. It’s refreshing.
     The opening credits sequence’s jewels, furs, and orchid are lavish materialistic wealth signifiers that aren’t far removed from the timeless pop American obsession that still exists to this day. Along with the American dream of becoming wealthy without having to work for it. But what’s most effective here and gives Easy Living structure is its reliance on quintessential screwball genre ingredients: misunderstandings, false assumptions, and misleading appearances. These are found often as both plot elements and wordplay.
     Most of all the sable coat. MARY SMITH (Jean Arthur with why the most generic character name ever?) thinks it’s Kolinsky but doesn’t find out until the end it’s real sable. Another distinct quality of Easy Living is how in that opening scene when we are introduced to the BALL household, the way they fight doesn’t feel like aristocratic refined manners; it’s more like wild quick to lose their temper new money, which is more relatable, or at least more enjoyable. 
     But the other big misunderstanding crucial to the plot is the way Mary is mistaken for J.B. Ball’s mistress and every vulture in town swoops in to cash in on exploiting her for what they can gain from it. The whole tone of it feels like it’s relevant and could easily happen in our own times. Preston Sturges knows how to wring the comedy out of it though. The mistress angle plays out into the third act and through to the film’s climax turning into insider trading and market manipulation. And it’s all so outlandish yet somehow that makes it even more plausible.
     In keeping with this whole misunderstanding thing, there’s a scene played so indelibly by Jean Arthur when LOUIS LOUIS is showing her the suite and they’re discussing how much for “whatever it is you want?” where she seems in an honest sweet endearing way to be acquiescing to some sort of sex transaction. It’s quick. And despite how later she’s explosively offended that someone could even consider she accepted the sable from Ball as his mistress, I still think this reading of interpreting her suggestion in the earlier scene plays. Maybe it’s best left to our own imagination. 

 

What an ending. You don’t see it coming. And it’s what keeps the mistaken for mistress premise from running thin. It’s non sequitur. The way the Ray Milland character who’s only ever found himself capable in the work sector as a busboy out of nowhere proves himself ideal to run one of the largest financial institutions in the world is so funny because again it’s so outlandish but in real life that makes it even more plausible. It’s how people think now. It’s how people are now. It also fits with the title, with the theme. It's even more now the American dream to achieve financial gain or some shortcut to prosperity through scamming. But that’s not all. When Milland tells the Jean Arthur character “and I have a job for you… cooking my breakfast.” He’s serious. And it’s not meant to be funny which makes it even more funny.

     

No quaking rabbit was ever happy

Theodora Goes Wild (1936, Richard Boleslawski) is a woman’s picture screwball comedy where a chaste Sunday school teacher needs to let herself live, love, learn, and laugh—embrace power, fame, dress extravagantly, and pry the man she desires free of that pesky marriage he’s in so she can have him to herself. 

     Comedienne Irene Dunne is perfect in this. Most of the movie she’s this mousy THEODORA LYNN. She resides in a small Connecticut town that might be named after her family? In a way the film feels like it’s placed her in hiding here. And the way Melvyn Douglas’ MICHAEL GRANT arrives (after stealing her cookies) there is like the trope of the blackmailer showing up threatening to blow her cover. Could be something straight out of a film noir, except here this shady character represents her latent sexual urges. The way he takes up residence in that guesthouse in her backyard and his whistling agitates her is a mating call she blocks out with her aggressive piano mashing. 
     Going fishing is the midpoint. Point of no return. We know they’re in love and nothing can prevent them from being together by the end of the movie. But it can’t be that easy. And sexual frustration manifests itself as that whistling that refuses to go away; or the way the dog chases the cat around; or the way Jay wants that cheese in the mousetrap. The small town Theodora hides in is like an anthill full of femcels. That literary circle is a mob. A cheeky touch is the coded montage that cuts between the old maids and close-ups of each of their cats.
     The precursor to Theodora going wild is when she gives that speech and Dunne’s eyes boldly bulge in indignation. But it’s act III where she transforms into her free, relentlessly assertive, take charge CAROLINE ADAMS self that gives the film its modern uproarious edge. And that’s the most screwball thing about Theodora Goes Wild: we think she’s Eve being tempted by the servant early on, but it’s not that she abandons her virtue, it’s that she breaks free of the femcel cult and fulfills the film’s promise of awakening her to let herself truly live. “Be free. Express yourself. Take your life in your own hands and mold it. The world will try to rob you of your freedom but fight for it. That’s all you have to live for. That’s all for the modern girl.”
     And what’s so screwball is at first we think Theodora adopts this Caroline Adams exaggerated persona as a ploy to get Michael back, but it’s not: it’s really her. She ends as this persona. As heightened and ridiculously rollicking as it is, she doesn’t go back to her old self. And that’s the way screwball comedy works best. Deception and disguises. Characters performing roles that liberate their true selves.
     Again authority is oppressive. Why does Theodora have to hide ADELAIDE’S baby? Adelaide is married, and her husband is going to school but her mother doesn’t approve. Why does Michael hide his marriage? And keep up the sham? For a politician. Screwball is about overthrowing power structures that prevent us from being happy. And the eternal object of desire: two people who can make each other laugh falling in love. And for good measure a nightclub scene where they get slobberingly sauced.

Green in judgement cold in blood

Back during the Golden Age of Hollywood a double standard emerged: when a character pursues a love interest who’s hard to get, it depends on their sex. If a man goes after a woman who’s unattainable, it turns out to be a trap and his life is ruined. On the other hand, when a woman sets her sights on a man who isn’t the right fit, it’s up to her to be patient, so that in the end he changes for her and they live happily ever after.

She Married Her Boss (1935, Gregory La Cava) isn’t quite the sexual harassment comedy one might expect based on its title, but its frank depictions of a woman’s role are played to the height of their potential as scandalous confrontation in the guise of a distinctly provocative screwball woman’s picture. At its core is the tradwife vs. career trope. And its moral is bluntly overt: business crushes the life out of people. 
     Or like this film tells us: the true career of a woman is marriage. (Brilliant. At my most cynical I’ve always suspected love is nothing more than a deceptive way of hiding what’s actually nothing more than two people using each other.) So JULIA SCOTT (Claudette Colbert) has designs on her boss RICHARD BARCLAY (Melvyn Douglas) which she executes as a shrewd businesswoman. She has waited 6 years for her shot. One night she calculatedly gets herself invited to Barclay’s house for business. Then she steps in as department of household efficiency and fires most of his domestic staff and earns herself a position in his cabinet. Next they’re married. But offscreen of course. We don’t need to see a wedding because this is business, it’s just another line item. 
     The conflict presents itself when Julia reveals her ulterior bait and switch strategy. Her department of household efficiency ploy was a trojan horse to get her in. She reveals her next phase as stay at home wife, wearing excessively ornate frilly feminine gowns, refusing to go back to work (Barclay’s promoted her to vice president of his company at this point), until she finally surprises him at the office demanding to be taken out to lunch. 
     Barclay balks. But conveniently for Julia this whole time there’s been this guy ROGERS whom she was sent earlier to handle the merger of a failing business of his in Philadelphia, that’s been aggressively courting her at her office and home. And here like any great screwball comedy She Married Her Boss explores that moment with their main character finding themselves in desperate need of sex. Going into the second act break, the scene in the shop window is so creative.  There’s a living room set, and the dummies mirror Julia’s empty existence that her life of luxury has allotted her. So she enlists Rogers to get completely wasted—the aftermath cut to with all of the mannequins holding drinks and falling over is so sad and poignant and fun. At the dummies party, there’s a beat where Julia and Rogers are singing songs and after there’s that female mannequin presenting her posterior frozen in lordosis and Julia corrects it, “Abigail, really.” That coded scene tells us Julia’s needs.
     So what does Barclay do after giving up on his marriage? No one could have guessed this one. He gets extremely drunk, kidnaps Julia, goes on a wild drunk driving rampage and coerces her into throwing bricks vandalizing the storefront of his luxury department store then whisks her off to Cuba. Marriage salvaged. Julia’s happy. They’ll undoubtedly live happily ever after. 
 
I hope not to neglect doing my best to emphasize how well She Married Her Boss works as a screwball woman’s picture. The dialogue is ferociously malicious hysterical. This takes the whole insult angle of the screwball even further than thus far scene elsewhere. My favorite. 
     Julia’s catty best friend MARTHA provides useful counterpoint arguments as advice, and my favorite quip is when she pops off to the little girl and has that line about cannibalism: the only way you’d be nice is roasted, or something like that. 
     But the little girl ANNABEL BARCLAY is played by this child star Edith Fellows and is such a spoiled evil brat it’s uproarious. Her intro she’s a chronic fibber and accuses the cook of serving cat. She also insults every other adult who comes in their home, calling them stupid and holding her own to the end. Of course at the very beginning when Julia’s cleaning house there’s this memorable scene when she gives the little girl a spanking; the camera pushes in on Annabel; what we hear offscreen is terrifying. But at least this narrative doesn’t skimp on conflict. And it’s always a comedy.
     But what’s up with the femcel sister? I love how when her brother Richard gets drunk and she sees him she faints we never see her again. She hates Julia. And that beef is never resolved—that to me is like a bonus joke. It’s not that this movie is saying women shouldn’t work and belong in the home, it’s saying no one should. It’s a fun rebellion.

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.

Currently Inked: 30jul2025

(Mostly what's inked and being carried around by me.)

Okay, from left to right, what we've got here is (are?):

1. Lamy AL-Star, Fine nib*, inked with a Lamy Pink Cliff cartridge
   The nib is a replacement, after I dropped this on Redfield's concrete floor on the way to a Casey Johnston book reading, followed by a day of assiduous "adjustment" and "repair" eventuating in the total cessation of that nib's capacity to conduct ink from pen to paper.
   This is my anointed pen for testing new inks in first, and is my current pen for daily writing in my bullet journal because (a) I need to get through this ink (which is QUITE nice), and (b) I lost #7, my previous daily writer.
   This one is a solid writer, even with the replacement nib, and I enjoy this ink quite a lot. It's dark, but not black, and has some nice, subtle shading.
2. TWSBI Eco, Fine nib, inked with Backpack Ink's Dublin Green
   At the moment, I'm struggling to fully love this pen, though I'm not sure why. It's a very good writer, but I don't find myself excited to reach for it. It's undoubtedly cool to see the ink slosh around in there, but it's not as comfortable in the hand as other options I have, being both girthier and heavier than I prefer.
   This green ink rules quite a bit, tho. Clean, clear color with some fun blacker shading here and there.
3. Bic Cristal Re'New, with ... uh, a Bic Medium 1.0 mm ... refill? Refill, it's refillable!
   This was a gift brought back from Paris by the incomparable Noodles! Hilariously, the "Bic Crystal but it's made out of aluminum not plastic" was one of my few Grail pens left, but I wasn't willing to hand Amazon any coin for it, so I had to wait a few years to get my hands on one. I'm mostly using this at work right now, and it makes me smile consistently, as a perfect writer of my favorite blue ink, and something that isn't plastic. I have the custom silver-colored cap at home, because I don't want to chew or lose it, and I do want to chew the average Bic Crystal cap. Luckily, I had some Crystals around to strip for parts.
4. Zebra bLen, .7 gel, Zebra JNC refill
   My previous work pen, probably my favorite gel of all time. Fast, fluid, comfortable writer, inexpensive, looks cool.
5. Prismacolor Ebony Jet Black 14420
   What I reach for first when I reach for something to draw with.
6. Pentel P205, .5 mm, some super-light lead that I can barely see on the page anymore
   I just carry this one around, I haven't used it in years. Stripped the eraser for a Conte Criterium lead holder (2 mm) a long time ago.
7. .
8. Zebra V-301, Fine nib, inked with a Zebra black ink cartridge
   Another one I reach for come sketching time. Not a writer, but a fun, sturdy pen with a nice thin line for erotic doodles my artistic pursuits.

Please join me in pouring one out at this time for ol' No. 7 above, a Lamy Safari (Strawberry colorway, Extra-Fine nib) that became one with the infinite due to Fat error one evening on the way to a basketball game. Seveny, you'll be missed.

(What they look like on a Traveler's graph insert.)

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.