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Rating: This 1941 comedy is a unique film for more than one reason.
- It is Hitchcock’s only real foray into pure comedy: no murders, mysteries, or conspiracies—just the romantic adventures of a couple.
- It is the penultimate film shot by the sublime Carole Lombard, and the last to be released before her untimely passing.
- It’s one of the last authentic screwball comedies, that sophisticated and brilliant genre featuring high-society characters involved in absurd, romantic, and ironic plots, yet never cloying.
The term “screwball” comes from baseball and refers to a ball that veers off unpredictably. That’s how these comedies were: unusual and yet perfectly orchestrated. A genre never truly appreciated in Italy, perhaps because it was too sophisticated, not aligned with the taste for a more down-to-earth storytelling. Yet, beneath the glitter of high society, there was often a progressive soul: women were intelligent, strong-willed, witty, and regularly outsmarted the more naive, easily manipulated men—who were still “gentlemen”.
The plot is thin, as often happens in this genre: Ann and David Smith, married for three years, are still living a tumultuous and passionate relationship. After an argument and yet another reconciliation, Ann asks David if, given the chance, he would marry her again. David, with brutal honesty, says no. That very day, the two accidentally discover that their marriage was never legally registered.
Thus begins a game of pursuit and retaliation, in which David clumsily tries to win Ann back, while she considers all the reasons why being with him may not be so desirable after all.
For all its lightness, the plot touches on a topic that is far from frivolous: the disillusionment that can creep in after years of living together. But the film stays on the surface, with no psychological probing or dramatic turns. Robert Montgomery is perfectly at ease in the role of the confused husband, and Carole Lombard seems born to play this kind of part: witty, magnetic, radiant. The film was also a commercial success, marking Lombard’s return to comedy after some dramatic roles.
What doesn’t work for a contemporary viewer, even one who loves the genre? Certainly, it’s not the Hitchcock you would expect. But even imagining the film directed by someone else, the comedy never really takes off. Aside from a delightful scene set in a disreputable dive—the only moment when the film’s true potential is reached—the rest is only moderately amusing, never matching the heights of masterpieces such as My Man Godfrey or the ineffable Nothing Sacred.
In my opinion, though, it remains a more successful comedy than The Trouble with Harry, thanks to a more cohesive cast, a tighter plot, and especially that veil of nostalgia that hits hard: nostalgia for Carole Lombard, the brilliant comet of cinema gone too soon, and for an entire genre swept away by the war, replaced by an increasingly somber kind of filmmaking, which would nonetheless give rise to one of its most fascinating genres: noir.
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