Nous irons à Paris

Joan Blondell saved many a movie. Here, as the star, she tries hard, but she is given lines which change her character from minute to minute. The lines are seldom funny. She was always at her best, both early and late in her career, as the brassy city broad, cynical, but with a heart of gold. She doesn't have this kind of role here. Her gold digging ambitions are out of character and are only a minor plot device. Melvin Douglas is Melvin Douglas, urbane, sophisticated, with a dry wit, but no witty lines at all. Walter Connelly, as usual, shouts his lines, but none of them are funny.

The good films of this type seem effortlessly written and performed. This kind of film shows, by its failures, just how great an effort those good films required.