Une nuit à Casablanca

A Night in Casablanca does have a somewhat contrived plot about spies and hidden treasure, and it mayn't quite have the consistent genius of their earlier outings primarily Duck Soup, however it is still thoroughly enjoyable thanks to some of the gags and performances.

It does look striking and has a quirky score. And the dialogue is pretty darn hilarious and quotable, and I liked the cheeky comparisons with Casablanca, one of my all-time favourite movies. A Night in Casablanca is salvaged though by the gags, Groucho's attempts to get inside various hotel rooms in order to woo Annette and Chico thwarting him every time is a great gag that does not wear out its welcome, but Harpo has the best gag that happens in the opening minutes. The acting is great, Harpo and Chico are very funny and Lois Collier is a nice surprise too, but once again Groucho elevates this film, being as quick and witty as I've come to know him by and going into one-line overdrive.

In conclusion, not outstanding but a lot of fun. 8/10 Bethany Cox

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.

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.

"A Night in Casablanca" is filled with the usual Marx Brother's energy and then some. It is their slapstick that is uniquely displayed by these masters of the craft. Even though this particular comedy is not their best, it is still worth an evening of fun. It takes place in Casablanca, and the name alone conjures up the Bogart film. There is a series of murders of prior hotel managers. The plot thickens from there. All fans of the comedy of the Marx Brothers should view this film in addition to their entire collection. Without a doubt it is not to be missed. Harpo is especially funny in his typical antics. Groucho is a quick and witty as ever. It gets a very good rating from me.

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.