Although the first ten minutes of the film are a trial, relishing as it does the cacophony of early films, the sheer bravado of Pat O'Brien and the iridescent charm of Irene Dunne soon make up for the horror of Myrna Loy, as stiff and plastic as her hairdo, and John Halliday, as a weak, chinless cretin musician. Once these two are left behind, the screenplay transcends its material and the dialogue and wit are as illuminating as the key lighting. The interaction between Dunne and O'Brien is what people mean when they say: "They don't make movies like this anymore." The two simply become more than the sum of their parts.
Discussing the ending would be akin to drowning a kitten. Suffice it to say that this is soap opera at its best and once the two weak sisters re-appear and disappear, we are left with an ending that allows us to feel morally uplifted. The material is dated but the inter-action between these two beginning stars of yesteryear makes up for any weaknesses. To fault the film for its age is simply ridiculous and makes such critics even less aware of just how good Hollywood films once were -- crowsfeet and all.
Discussing the ending would be akin to drowning a kitten. Suffice it to say that this is soap opera at its best and once the two weak sisters re-appear and disappear, we are left with an ending that allows us to feel morally uplifted. The material is dated but the inter-action between these two beginning stars of yesteryear makes up for any weaknesses. To fault the film for its age is simply ridiculous and makes such critics even less aware of just how good Hollywood films once were -- crowsfeet and all.