Review of My Little Chickadee (1940) by James B — 19 Jan 2009

I will admit I missed something here, for the rating of two stars is generous on my part and take into account the differences in culture between then and now (I can hear a bit of my grandparents in the style and manner of speaking).

I love the comedic timing of Chaplin, the witty banter of Stewart, Grant, Hepburn and the other great screw ball comedians, and appreciate the farcical word play of the Marx brothers, but circus performer-like drunk and a full-of-herself, dull actress hold little appeal for me.

It has been a long time since I have watched a movie that was painful, and the way in which Fields and West think of themselves and their own jokes so highly was rather sickening. (In order to leave one last slap of vitriol across the film, I find it exceedingly ironic, and telling, that the name of the saloon is The Last Gasp, and Fields umbrella is bendable and crooked, suggesting his, and the film's, impotence.

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