Screwball comedy involving, among others, a paleontologist, a society girl with an uncorrectable high opinion of herself and an unstoppable word flow, a fox terrier who has stolen and buried a priceless brontosaurus bone, a big-game hunter, and a pet leopard whose temper can be soothed by the singing of “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby,” all of whom, plus others, come together at top volume for the finale in the sheriff’s office. The infectiousness of the thing doesn’t come so much from Howard Hawks’s directorial touch (he’s normally light on drama and ham-handed on comedy), but from the perfectly natural, unselfconscious, and idiosyncratic sense of humor. What Hawks finds funny is easy to identify because of the persistent re-surfacing of the same ideas in other movies: a bookworm for a hero; Cary Grant in women’s clothing; a woman oblivious to the fact that the back of her dress is missing; the nagging repetition of a person’s name until it begins to sound like an accusation; and so forth. With Katharine Hepburn, Charles Ruggles, Barry Fitzgerald. (1938) — Duncan Shepherd
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