The above is an E.Y. Harburg couplet in a nimble ballad called "Fancy Meeting You," and it distills as well as any other lyric Harburg's huge gift for hyperbolizing hoary sentiments into fresh ones. The movie could use a little more of his wit and whimsy.
It's a slightly off-key Warner Brothers musical that wants to be a screwball comedy, with director Powell fending off wacky relatives and the advances of untalented diva Blondell, while producer William employs Freudian psychology to unite the mismatched pair, while Powell pursues an on-again-off-again-on-again romance with maddeningly fresh-faced ingenue Madden. (Her flat line readings make Ruby Keeler sound like Bette Davis.) Oh, the Yacht Club Boys are in it, too, with two endless specialty numbers that may have had resonance in 1936 -- one's about income taxes, the other about physical culture -- but their forced goofiness has dated badly.
Most surprisingly, despite the Berkeley imprimatur, there are no production numbers here; Warners, one has to assume, was on a budget binge. So the saving graces are the nice Arlen/Harburg songs, and Blondell, in an uncharacteristically broad and unsympathetic role. You don't believe her for a moment, yet she's terrific, batting her eyes and flashing her teeth and cavorting like an over-the-top Carole Lombard. This lady could do anything, but she doesn't really save this all-too-middling musical.
It's a slightly off-key Warner Brothers musical that wants to be a screwball comedy, with director Powell fending off wacky relatives and the advances of untalented diva Blondell, while producer William employs Freudian psychology to unite the mismatched pair, while Powell pursues an on-again-off-again-on-again romance with maddeningly fresh-faced ingenue Madden. (Her flat line readings make Ruby Keeler sound like Bette Davis.) Oh, the Yacht Club Boys are in it, too, with two endless specialty numbers that may have had resonance in 1936 -- one's about income taxes, the other about physical culture -- but their forced goofiness has dated badly.
Most surprisingly, despite the Berkeley imprimatur, there are no production numbers here; Warners, one has to assume, was on a budget binge. So the saving graces are the nice Arlen/Harburg songs, and Blondell, in an uncharacteristically broad and unsympathetic role. You don't believe her for a moment, yet she's terrific, batting her eyes and flashing her teeth and cavorting like an over-the-top Carole Lombard. This lady could do anything, but she doesn't really save this all-too-middling musical.