The year was 1938. Audiences, still reeling from the sucker punch of a not-quite shaken Great Depression and the spectre of looming World War, took to the moving picture houses, presumably for a peaceful diversion, a relaxing reprieve from the exhausting whirlwind that was their lives. Then came Howard Hawks and Bringing Up Baby - a film about as relaxing as taking a joy ride on the outside of a fighter jet (and scarcely quieter, albeit much more joyful). So relentlessly madcap that Hawks inadvertently coined a genre in an attempt to make sense of the antics of his cast of characters ("screwball," natch), Baby bombed at a box office - presumably due to a medical alert cautioning impending loss of consciousness from laughing too hard and incessantly. Revisited 80+ years after its initial release, the oft-imitated Baby remains the undisputed champion of the rollercoaster romp, swapping out balance, breathing, and very nearly common sense in exchange for a peerless barrage of overcaffienated hilarity. And, to quote the panting, sweating, bemused Cary Grant, in between cross-dressing and being doused in chicken feathers: "I've never had a better time!"
Hawks himself, retroactively denounced his film for being too relentlessly zany, and lacking even a single straight (wo)man to ground the insanity (with the pointed exception of Virginia Walker's staid, uninteresting and unromantic romantic interest). And, while it's true that 90 minutes of Hawks' marathon pacing and machine gun banter can start to feel wearying, excessively bemoaning having too much of a good time is more ridiculous than any of the treasure trove of antics Hawks parades through the film. And ridiculousness aplenty awaits. Whisking by on a typhoon of repetitious wordplay, double-entendres, slapstick, visual gags, half a zoo's worth of menagerie, and various states of Hays Code-baiting undress, Hawks hits Shakespearean levels of dignified bawdiness (think Much Ado About Nothing performed on a formula one track), then honks the Bard on the nose while passing him on the comedic freeway. It's rare and wonderful to see a comedy so singularly and purely committed to raising laughs at all costs, utterly eschewing pretences of anything beyond unbridled entertainment.
For Hawks, pacing is not so much a concept as a challenge. But, telling a story so willfully superfluous at such breakneck speed replete with the elegance of immaculate story structure and an incandescently clever script, makes watching the film akin to whizzing down a waterslide sipping a perfectly prepared cup of tea. Here, dialogue is not so much exchange as physical assault, as if the characters are attempting to push each other out of the frame with their sheer frantic barrage of words. Gone is the conventional class critique of the decade's convention: nothing and no one is safe from Hawks' voracious satire, as the rich, poor, men, women, scholarly, and illiterate are all socialistically denounced and revered as equally adorable nitwits, valuable only insofar as their capacity to be either driving or the butt of a joke. Hawks' irreverence feels consistently authentic and earned, however, even if it does mean the film's structural sophistication isn't echoed in depth in content or characterization. But who has time for those pesky things, anyway? Or breathing, for that matter?
Although the entirety of the cast shine in their respective moments in the spotlight, the film is indisputably anchored on an trifecta: Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, and a placidly mischievous leopard doing its utmost to undermine any fleeting attempts at normalcy. Grant is simply outstanding - nebbish but nimble, he runs the gamut of incredulity to insanity with boisterous ease, raising as many laughs from his flustered silences as his bombastic bursts of harried abandon. Hepburn is less performance than force of nature. A Tasmanian devil of whimsical chaos and incessant talking, Hepburn would toe the line of being infuriatingly nattering were her inherent charisma and charm not so radiant that her antics are not only gut-bustingly funny, but surprisingly sympathetic and sweet.
And the leopard? Top notch as well - and probably the most remarkably well-behaved one of the lot, at that.
A seminal seminar in 'everything but the kitchen sink' comedy keeping its dignity, Bringing Up Baby has lost none of its furious momentum and riotous wackiness, even if its lack of moments of zen make it a touch hard to know its protagonists beyond their pratfalls. For once, 'a laugh a minute' is more than a figure of speech - even if taking it literally would suggest that only a fraction of the gags in that given time span land have landed. Exhausting, exhilarating, and more coherent than any film this zany has any right to be, Hawks' classic is a triple shot of espresso, but from the most gourmet of cinematic roasts, and worth bringing up anew for years to come. In short: you can't give it anything but love, baby.
Now, I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Peabody!
-9/10
Hawks himself, retroactively denounced his film for being too relentlessly zany, and lacking even a single straight (wo)man to ground the insanity (with the pointed exception of Virginia Walker's staid, uninteresting and unromantic romantic interest). And, while it's true that 90 minutes of Hawks' marathon pacing and machine gun banter can start to feel wearying, excessively bemoaning having too much of a good time is more ridiculous than any of the treasure trove of antics Hawks parades through the film. And ridiculousness aplenty awaits. Whisking by on a typhoon of repetitious wordplay, double-entendres, slapstick, visual gags, half a zoo's worth of menagerie, and various states of Hays Code-baiting undress, Hawks hits Shakespearean levels of dignified bawdiness (think Much Ado About Nothing performed on a formula one track), then honks the Bard on the nose while passing him on the comedic freeway. It's rare and wonderful to see a comedy so singularly and purely committed to raising laughs at all costs, utterly eschewing pretences of anything beyond unbridled entertainment.
For Hawks, pacing is not so much a concept as a challenge. But, telling a story so willfully superfluous at such breakneck speed replete with the elegance of immaculate story structure and an incandescently clever script, makes watching the film akin to whizzing down a waterslide sipping a perfectly prepared cup of tea. Here, dialogue is not so much exchange as physical assault, as if the characters are attempting to push each other out of the frame with their sheer frantic barrage of words. Gone is the conventional class critique of the decade's convention: nothing and no one is safe from Hawks' voracious satire, as the rich, poor, men, women, scholarly, and illiterate are all socialistically denounced and revered as equally adorable nitwits, valuable only insofar as their capacity to be either driving or the butt of a joke. Hawks' irreverence feels consistently authentic and earned, however, even if it does mean the film's structural sophistication isn't echoed in depth in content or characterization. But who has time for those pesky things, anyway? Or breathing, for that matter?
Although the entirety of the cast shine in their respective moments in the spotlight, the film is indisputably anchored on an trifecta: Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, and a placidly mischievous leopard doing its utmost to undermine any fleeting attempts at normalcy. Grant is simply outstanding - nebbish but nimble, he runs the gamut of incredulity to insanity with boisterous ease, raising as many laughs from his flustered silences as his bombastic bursts of harried abandon. Hepburn is less performance than force of nature. A Tasmanian devil of whimsical chaos and incessant talking, Hepburn would toe the line of being infuriatingly nattering were her inherent charisma and charm not so radiant that her antics are not only gut-bustingly funny, but surprisingly sympathetic and sweet.
And the leopard? Top notch as well - and probably the most remarkably well-behaved one of the lot, at that.
A seminal seminar in 'everything but the kitchen sink' comedy keeping its dignity, Bringing Up Baby has lost none of its furious momentum and riotous wackiness, even if its lack of moments of zen make it a touch hard to know its protagonists beyond their pratfalls. For once, 'a laugh a minute' is more than a figure of speech - even if taking it literally would suggest that only a fraction of the gags in that given time span land have landed. Exhausting, exhilarating, and more coherent than any film this zany has any right to be, Hawks' classic is a triple shot of espresso, but from the most gourmet of cinematic roasts, and worth bringing up anew for years to come. In short: you can't give it anything but love, baby.
Now, I'll be with you in a minute, Mr. Peabody!
-9/10