Una notte a Casablanca

The Marx Brothers are the greatest comedy team of all time. Even in their later films, including this one, which weren't among their best efforts, they still manage to make you laugh. They filled their films with social commentary, sexual innuendo, and slapstick, all with effortless ease, and without being offending. The scenes of Groucho going from one hotel room to another, trying to get Annette alone, with brother Chico as his bodyguard thwarting his every attempt, are gems. I introduced the Marx Brothers to my son while he was very young, and he loves them. Now, more then ten years later he still pulls out the old videotapes occasionally. Then for the next week all we hear in the house is, ‘I once shot an elephant in my pajamas. How they got in my pajamas I'll never know.' Nothing compares to the Marx Brothers, before or since.

At last, another highly enjoyable Marx Brothers movie from their later days! In fact, I'd almost consider CASABLANCA as enjoyable as A NIGHT AT THE OPERA, which is the best of the latter movies for my money. This is a very well-written comedy with Groucho in excellent form and given an endless array of funny lines to spout. Harpo is a laugh riot from start to finish and Chico --- well, he's still just Chico, but I loved his piano playing segment this time around, and he's got some nice scenes supporting Harpo. Sig Ruman adds a lot of spice in his role as the perfect recipient of the team's gags.

With my still being fairly new to the Marx Brothers at the time of this viewing, I'd say it appears the writing seemed to be everything when it came to their comedy. When it's bad (ROOM SERVICE) they don't have a leg to stand on. When it's superb (like in OPERA and CASABLANCA) they're comical geniuses.

The Marx Brothers came out of retirement to make this film in order to help the financially-strapped Chico, who was forever broke due to his gambling addiction.

The movie begins slowly, and there are some rather unfunny scenes featuring Harpo, but when Chico and Groucho arrive on the scene the film really picks up. There are some truly great scenes in this film. My favorite is Harpo desperately trying to convey important information to Chico via whistles and inspired charade.

The plot is rather silly, but who cares? While not on a par with their classics "Duck Soup" and "A Night at the Opera", this movie is very much worth seeing.

That the Marxes could make this as their final film together (Groucho was tacked onto "Love Happy" as an afterthought and had no scenes with Chico and Harpo) means they could go out with a flourish. Groucho's jokes were back in form, not-so-sly innuendo and all, and the dross of the MGM years was cut away: the romantic leads had minimal screen time and did NOT sing, and the special effects laden last reel chase scene was cut mercifully short. Although it's unfortunate that the script had the quick-witted Marxes resort to poor stage fighting to overcome the Nazis. I believe it was while hanging from the ladder in that chase scene (in what's too clearly the California desert) that Groucho decided there must be a better way to make a living, and went to what became "You Bet Your Life."

PS: It suddenly struck me that Sig Ruman's voice, without the accent, could have been a perfect double for Marvin the Martian. Anyone know if he could have inspired Mel Blanc?

I got some hearty laughs out of it, so that's what counts in the end.

This letter from Warners to the Marx Brothers threatening legal action over the name "A night in Casablanca" was just printed in the paper today.

Dear Warner Bros., Apparently there is more than one way of conquering a city and holding it as your own. For example, up to the time that we contemplated making this picture, I had no idea that the city of Casablanca belonged exclusively to Warner Brothers. However, it was only a few days after our announcement appeared that we received your long, ominous legal document warning us not to use the name Casablanca.

It seems that in 1471, Ferdinand Balboa Warner, your great-great-grandfather, while looking for a shortcut to the city of Burbank, had stumbled on the shores of Africa and, raising his alpenstock (which he later turned in for a 100 shares of common), named it Casablanca.

I just don't understand your attitude. Even if you plan on releasing your picture, I am sure that the average movie fan could learn in time to distinguish between Ingrid Bergman and Harpo. I don't know whether I could, but I certainly would like to try.

You claim that you own Casablanca and that no one else can use that name without permission. What about "Warner Brothers"? Do you own that too? You probably have the right to use the name Warner, but what about the name Brothers? Professionally, we were brothers long before you were. We were touring the sticks as the Marx Brothers when Vitaphone was still a gleam in the inventor's eye, and even before there had been other brothers - the Smith Brothers; the Brothers Karamazov; Dan Brothers, an outfielder with Detroit; and Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?. (This was originally "Brothers, Can You Spare a Dime?" but this was spreading a dime pretty thin, so they threw out one brother, gave all the money to the other one, and whittled it down to "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?") Now Jack, how about you? Do you maintain that yours is an original name? Well it's not. It was used long before you were born. Offhand, I can think of two Jacks - Jack of Jack and the Beanstalk, and Jack the Ripper, who cut quite a figure in his day.

As for you, Harry, you probably sign your checks sure in the belief that you are the first Harry of all time and that all other Harrys are impostors. I can think of two Harrys that preceded you. There was Lighthouse Harry of Revolutionary fame and a Harry Appelbaum who lived on the corner of 93rd Street and Lexington Avenue. Unfortunately, Appelbaum wasn't too well-known. The last I heard of him, he was selling neckties at Weber and Heilbroner.

Now about the Burbank studio. I believe this is what you brothers call your place. Old man Burbank is gone. Perhaps you remember him. He was a great man in a garden. His wife often said Luther had 10 green thumbs.

What a witty woman she must have been! Burbank was the wizard who crossed all those fruits and vegetables until he had the poor plants in such confused and jittery condition that they could never decide whether to enter the dining room on the meat platter or the dessert dish.

This is pure conjecture, of course, but who knows - perhaps Burbank's survivors aren't too happy with the fact that a plant that grinds out pictures on a quota settled in their town, appropriated Burbank's name and uses it as a front for their films.

It is even possible that the Burbank family is prouder of the potato produced by the old man than they are of the fact that your studio emerged Casablanca or even Gold Diggers of 1931.

This all seems to add up to a pretty bitter tirade, but I assure you it's not meant to. I love Warners. Some of my best friends are Warner Brothers. It is even possible that I am doing you an injustice and that you, yourselves, know nothing about this dog-in-the-Wanger attitude.

It wouldn't surprise me at all to discover that the heads of your legal department are unaware of this absurd dispute, for I am acquainted with many of them and they are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits and a love of their fellow man that out-Saroyans Saroyan.

I have a hunch that his attempt to prevent us from using the title is the brainchild of some ferret-faced shyster, serving a brief apprenticeship in your legal department. I know the type well - hot out of law school, hungry for success, and too ambitious to follow the natural laws of promotion. This bar sinister probably needled your attorneys, most of whom are fine fellows with curly black hair, double-breasted suits, etc., into attempting to enjoin us.

Well, he won't get away with it! We'll fight him to the highest court! No pasty-faced legal adventurer is going to cause bad blood between the Warners and the Marxes.

We are all brothers under the skin, and we'll remain friends till the last reel of A Night in Casablanca goes tumbling over the spool.

Sincerely, Groucho Marx See The Oxford Book of Letters, edited by Frank Kermode and Anita Kermode, Oxford University Press, 1996.