I love old movies. They're like time machines. Glimpses into the past; into the world that my parents inhabited.
But in this case it is a fantasy world. In l942, the country, having endured over a decade of economic depression, had just stepped across the threshold into the uncertain and wrenching horror of World War II. An easy sell in those hard times was a variation on the old Cinderella/Prince Charming story. So ignoring the current political realities and exploiting the great disparities of his day, Mr. Sturges created a fluffy hour and a half diversion based on the premise that some men, as he spares no cliché to point out, are born more equal than others.
The story line, unstructured and at times befuddling, is a typical Hollywood hash job. Having been monetarily blessed by her fairy godfather (Robert Dudley as the Weenie King) Mrs. Gerry Jeffers (Claudette Colbert) leaves New York, her hapless husband Tom (Joel McCrea), and all her troubles behind. Aboard a train, (the pumpkin), bound for the fantasyland of Palm Beach, where the stinking rich live the high life (then as now) in a bubble completely divorced from the grueling exigencies of the average Joe's day to day life she meets her Really Rich Guy, John D. Hackensacker III (Rudy Vallee) who buys her everything. Will her looser husband who really loves her win her back? Or will the licentious Princess Centimillia (Mary Astor) get her hooks into him first?
The transcendent scene for me was when Rudy Vallee sings "Goodnight Sweetheart" while Colbert struggles with the zipper on an evening dress that Madonna would die for.
Sexual innuendo aside, I found this movie to be neither humorous nor entertaining. Rather it was boorish, predictable, and contrived. The most egregious injury was to those people represented by characters such as Fred Toones, the Club Car bartender, portrayed stereotypically, so as to reinforce and perpetuate the Jim Crow racism of the day. An insult then, an embarrassment now.
In fact the whole movie is a celebration of a system of exploitation. The Robber Baron descendant Hackensacker is unbothered by the source of his plenitude. It just is. Sturges, who knew only too well where the bodies were buried in Palm Beach, didn't want to spoil the fun by showing us how such wealth is made and supported. This is after all a fairy tale. A whitewash.
Call me a wet blanket but it just amazes me that this kind of tripe could be made during a time of world upheaval, suffering and sacrifice. I think it says something very unflattering about that 1942 Hollywood in general, Sturges in particular, and the audiences who bought into this load.
A good movie should not only be literate and technically competent, but compelling and inspiring. Or at least funny. Measures to which this old flick hardly attains. I think I'm being generous in giving it two stars. Nevertheless, its redemption, as with many old things, has come with the years, and its value now lies in the perspective on contemporary life that a viewer can distill from its representations of that 1942 zeitgeist.
And for the hopelessly nostalgic like myself, a trip back to a time past.
But in this case it is a fantasy world. In l942, the country, having endured over a decade of economic depression, had just stepped across the threshold into the uncertain and wrenching horror of World War II. An easy sell in those hard times was a variation on the old Cinderella/Prince Charming story. So ignoring the current political realities and exploiting the great disparities of his day, Mr. Sturges created a fluffy hour and a half diversion based on the premise that some men, as he spares no cliché to point out, are born more equal than others.
The story line, unstructured and at times befuddling, is a typical Hollywood hash job. Having been monetarily blessed by her fairy godfather (Robert Dudley as the Weenie King) Mrs. Gerry Jeffers (Claudette Colbert) leaves New York, her hapless husband Tom (Joel McCrea), and all her troubles behind. Aboard a train, (the pumpkin), bound for the fantasyland of Palm Beach, where the stinking rich live the high life (then as now) in a bubble completely divorced from the grueling exigencies of the average Joe's day to day life she meets her Really Rich Guy, John D. Hackensacker III (Rudy Vallee) who buys her everything. Will her looser husband who really loves her win her back? Or will the licentious Princess Centimillia (Mary Astor) get her hooks into him first?
The transcendent scene for me was when Rudy Vallee sings "Goodnight Sweetheart" while Colbert struggles with the zipper on an evening dress that Madonna would die for.
Sexual innuendo aside, I found this movie to be neither humorous nor entertaining. Rather it was boorish, predictable, and contrived. The most egregious injury was to those people represented by characters such as Fred Toones, the Club Car bartender, portrayed stereotypically, so as to reinforce and perpetuate the Jim Crow racism of the day. An insult then, an embarrassment now.
In fact the whole movie is a celebration of a system of exploitation. The Robber Baron descendant Hackensacker is unbothered by the source of his plenitude. It just is. Sturges, who knew only too well where the bodies were buried in Palm Beach, didn't want to spoil the fun by showing us how such wealth is made and supported. This is after all a fairy tale. A whitewash.
Call me a wet blanket but it just amazes me that this kind of tripe could be made during a time of world upheaval, suffering and sacrifice. I think it says something very unflattering about that 1942 Hollywood in general, Sturges in particular, and the audiences who bought into this load.
A good movie should not only be literate and technically competent, but compelling and inspiring. Or at least funny. Measures to which this old flick hardly attains. I think I'm being generous in giving it two stars. Nevertheless, its redemption, as with many old things, has come with the years, and its value now lies in the perspective on contemporary life that a viewer can distill from its representations of that 1942 zeitgeist.
And for the hopelessly nostalgic like myself, a trip back to a time past.