Joan Blondell is sexy, in a frumpy sort of way, and she somehow manages to be both pretty and ugly at the same time. Think of her as the Lisa Kudrow of her day. In this movie Joan acts opposite Fernand Gravet, Belgium's greatest import since waffles. Try not to think of him at all. And they both act opposite Edward Everett Horton, a whimsically asexual chap who elevated flittering to an art form. Think of him as the Jm J. Bullock of his day. But, of course, the actors are secondary to the screenwriter in this pleasantly forgettable film, as the man behind the typewriter was none other than Groucho Marx, the Groucho Marx of his day. Groucho's contributions to the screenplay are most noticeable near the beginning, in scenes of forced banter between Gravet and Horton, which only proves how unfunny Groucho the writer can be without Groucho the actor delivering the lines. If you're truly interested in how funny Groucho the writer can be, then avoid this film and read his autobiography Groucho and Me, or The Groucho Letters. If you want to see Joan Blondell in something good, rent A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. And if you absolutely must have a dose of Edward Everett Horton, watch Bullwinkle.
