Columbia Pictures Pre-Code Collection: Virtue directed by Edward Buzzell (starring Carole Lombard, Pat O'Brien, Mayo Methot, Shirley Grey, Ward Bond, Jack La Rue)

Virtue (1932). Screenplay by Robert Riskin from the original story by Ethel Hill.

Mae (Carole Lombard) is a sometime con artist who's been banned from New York City for solicitation. Jimmy (Pat O'Brien) is a cab driver who thinks he knows all about women. They meet when she skips out on her fare as he drives her back into town. They meet again when she returns to pay him, and they fall for each other.

As she turns over a new leaf, her biggest fear is that Jimmy will find out about her past. Then it comes back to haunt her in the form of a former colleague (Shirley Grey) who says she needs an operation. Mae borrows the money from Jimmy's fund toward a half-interest in a gas station — his big dream — then has to go back to her old stomping grounds to get it back before he finds out. There she gets in over her head and is arrested for murder.

O'Brien and Lombard are cute with each other, and their domestic scenes together are particularly romantic. It's their interaction that cements Virtue. Otherwise, this pre-Code is a pretty standard soaper about a "bad" woman redeemed by the love of a good man.

Ethel Hill's plot depends too much on contrivances and people not telling the truth to each other (honest communication is best in any marriage), but Robert Riskin's script supplies plenty of good wisecracking dialogue. (The radiant Lombard parading around for a while in a series of flimsy, low-cut tops is another high point.)

Ward Bond also appears as Jimmy's best friend Frank, and Jack La Rue is memorable as Toots, a racketeer with his hands in a couple of different honeypots. Mayo Methot is particularly good as Lil, probably her largest screen role. (She is best known for being married to Humphrey Bogart when he met Lauren Bacall. At the time, they were known as the "Battling Bogarts.")

Director Edward Buzzell assembles a solid cast and deftly combines the seedy and romantic sides of the story. And the ending, while no surprise, still elicits a smile. All of which makes Virtue a little better than it should be, and one of Carole Lombard's more entertaining early films.

Forbidden Hollywood, Volume 4: Jewel Robbery directed by William Dieterle (starring William Powell, Kay Francis, Helen Vinson, Henry Kolker)

Jewel Robbery (1932). Screenplay by Erwin Gelsey from the play Jewel Robbery (Ekszerrablás a Váci-uccában) by Ladislas Fodor (translated by Bertram Bloch).

Jewel Robbery is a lighter-than-a-feather romantic comedy starring William Powell as a debonair jewel thief and Kay Francis as the wife of one of his victims (Henry Kolker, who would play Francis's cuckolded husband again the next year in The Keyhole). Reading of Powell's exploits in the local paper excites Francis (a bored baroness) and her best friend Marianne (funny Helen Vinson), and actually being present at his next robbery finishes the job.

It was obvious from the opening credits that these two characters would romance each other — Jewel Robbery was the fifth film Powell and Francis did together. It's just too bad that the relationship feels forced: the actors have zero chemistry with each other.

Luckily, each actor has enough charm individually to make this flaw forgivable. Powell's and Francis's fans are probably busy focusing on their favorite, anyway.

Powell is smooth as always, but the easy manner that would carry him through six Thin Man films — that attitude of "Yes, I'm charming, but can we talk about something more interesting?" — has not yet developed. Francis is also just on the cusp of blooming into her persona, with One Way Passage and Trouble in Paradise just around the corner, but it's easy to see why they were paired in six movies together.

One more point of interest regarding this pre-Code film is the nearly rampant use of marijuana as a comedic point throughout Jewel Robbery. Powell passes the funny cigarettes around to all and sundry, leading to much laughter and silliness from the cast.

Union Depot directed by Alfred E. Green (starring Joan Blondell, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., Alan Hale, Guy Kibbee, Frank McHugh)

Union Depot (1932). Screenplay by Kenyon Nicholson and Walter De Leon, and dialogue by Kubec Glasmon and John Bright, from an unpublished play by Joe Laurie Jr., Gene Fowler, and Douglas Durkin.

Douglas Fairbanks Jr. stars as Chick, a vagrant just out of jail — and traveling with his partner "Scrap Iron," played by prolific character actor Guy Kibbee (Rain) — who takes advantage of a drunk's forgetfulness to get himself a shave and a change of clothes (and an unexpected pocketful of money) in order to get a hot meal at Union Depot.

His stomach full, he looks to satisfy another need and propositions Ruth (the cherubic Joan Blondell) due to her resemblance to a hooker who had just offered her services to him in the diner — and she takes him up on it (nothing explicit is ever mentioned) because she is desperate for money for a train ticket. Chick soon finds out Ruth is not a pro, however, and after he reprimands her, they hit it off romantically.

Meanwhile, Alan Hale (who had a memorable role in It Happened One Night, and who was the father of Alan Hale Jr., the Skipper on Gilligan's Island) plays a German violinist who turns out to be an American counterfeiter (guess what's in his violin case?). How Chick and Ruth get the case and start inadvertently passing phony money is complex but believable (the police spend the last quarter of the movie trying to figure it all out), as is their burgeoning affair, since they're both such pretty people.

Union Depot is a lot of fun but it also shines a light on the problems of the Depression — namely a lack of opportunity. Everyone in this film is making their own luck (both good and bad), and since this was made in the pre-Code era it's interesting to see how some crimes are "OK" in this context (Ruth's amateur prostitution and Chick's theft of the drunk's clothes) — since the crimes get them something they genuinely need to get along — and some are not (the counterfeiting, since it just involves greed). This take on relative wrongness would change completely with the enforcement of the Production Code by Joseph Breen in July 1934.

The story was reportedly a knockoff of the popular play that would inspire Grand Hotel (which followed Union Depot into theaters 3 months later), but I feel that the similarities are few and only on the surface. Director Alfred E. Green (The Goose and the Gander) does an admirable job of making light of Depression-era troubles without being disrespectful. And, best of all, things end the way they should end, not necessarily the way we want them to.

The Goose and the Gander directed by Alfred E. Green (starring Kay Francis, George Brent)

The Goose and the Gander (1935).
Story and screenplay by Charles Kenyon.

Kay Francis stars as Georgiana in The Goose and the Gander, a surprisingly racy (given that it was released during the enforcement of the Hays Code) bedroom farce from 1935. Georgiana runs into her ex-husband Ralph Summers (Ralph Forbes), whose current wife Betty (Genevieve Tobin) Georgiana has just seen making plans with her paramour, Bob (George Brent). In order to show Ralph the kind of woman he left her for, Georgiana schemes to get everyone together at her lodge under false pretenses, so Ralph can discover Betty with Bob.

Ralph agrees because he wants to be alone with Georgiana — remember, what's good for the goose is good for the gander — but things get more complicated when a pair of jewel thieves (John Eldredge and Claire Dodd) steal Betty's car and are sent to the lodge by mistake, whereupon they pose as "Ralph and Betty Summers."

Confused yet? Well, eventually the police show up and get everything all mixed up. Georgiana figures things out pretty quickly, though, and deviously plays along to the hilarious discomfort (O, joyous schadenfreude!) of the others. Meanwhile, she takes the opportunity to put the moves on Bob, to his reciprocal glee, but to Betty's chagrin. But it is a comedy, remember, so most everyone ends up happy in the end (even if it doesn't always quite fit with their characters' preceding actions).

The beautiful and charming Kay Francis, an actress with a vast filmography of which little is available on video, is truly the star here. She is in her element playing a member of polite society with amusingly intentions. She is so in control of all the actions on the screen that the other characters seem to be acting merely as her puppets.

The acting is solid all around, with the simple direction of Alfred E. Green serving Charles Kenyon's script quite well. At just over an hour, The Goose and the Gander is the ideal length for an afternoon's diversion, and a fine example of the kind of sophisticated comedy in which Hollywood specialized in the 1930s. It's also only one of several films Francis made with Brent, so if this pairing was enjoyable, there are more to seek.

The Bishop's Wife directed by Henry Koster (starring Cary Grant, Loretta Young, David Niven)

The Bishop's Wife (1947). Screenplay by Leonardo Bercovici and Robert Sherwood from the novel The Bishop's Wife by Robert Nathan. (Some scenes were reportedly rewritten uncredited by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett.)

Bishop: Are you expecting a letter?
Dudley: Well, you never know. If I did get one, the stamp would certainly be worth saving.

That's because Dudley (Cary Grant) is an angel sent to give guidance to forlorn Bishop Henry Brougham (David Niven), and who eventually lights up the lives of everyone else in the Bishop's life, especially The Bishop's Wife in this delightful Christmas film from the late 1940s. When the Bishop prays for help in getting a new cathedral built (the local millionairess widow will only give if her late husband's name is prominently displayed), Cary Grant shows up as his "assistant" but soon makes the Bishop even more miserable by charming his wife Julia (radiant Loretta Young), daughter Debby, and even housemaid Matilda (Elsa Lanchester, always wonderful).

The Bishop's Wife is truly "heavenly" with Grant playing off his tried-and-true persona. Originally Grant and Niven were supposed to have the opposite roles, but Grant decided he could do more with the angel role — and Grant was a bigger star — so they were exchanged. Good thing, too: I can't imagine Cary playing the indecisive Bishop any more than I can imagine Niven charming a woman away from Cary Grant.

Only a few things keep The Bishop's Wife from being perfect. There is an overlong ice-skating scene that really stretches the believability (I had to keep telling myself, "He's an angel; he can do anything"), and the film runs on about 20 minutes too long. In the beginning, Grant is so taken by Young that, if he weren't an angel, those looks would feel really sleazy. Turns out that Cary is just discovering temptations, which makes the ending all the more noble.

I originally saw The Bishop's Wife during the summer months a few years ago in the midst of a Cary Grant festival on Turner Classic Movies. That experience feels a little strange, but the movie is so ... happy that it's easy to slip into the vibe, especially with all the Christmas carols being bandied about like so many candy canes. I'd certainly recommend that fans of the stars watch it at least once (especially since Loretta Young, whom I don't find all that attractive, is made, through Gregg Toland's photography, into a very appealing woman). Niven is rather on the milquetoasty side and his richest scene involves him being stuck in a chair, but the rest of the film is two hours of Christmas joy.

Sharp-eyed viewers may recognize actress Karolyn Grimes (Debby) from her role in another classic Christmas film. The year before The Bishop's Wife, she played Zuzu in Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life.

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer directed by Irving Reis (starring Cary Grant, Myrna Loy, Shirley Temple, Rudy Vallee)

This review originally appeared in somewhat different form on Video Vista. Copyright 2002.

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer (1948). Screenplay by Sidney Sheldon.

Cary Grant and Myrna Loy star with a teenaged Shirley Temple in The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, a light-hearted comedy from the pen of Sidney Sheldon. Painter Richard Nugent (Grant, supposedly portraying a troublemaking womanizer but remaining lovable Cary) comes before Judge Margaret Turner (Loy) due to a nightclub scuffle in which he was a participant.

He later speaks on art at the school of Margaret's younger sister Susan (Temple), where she develops a crush on him (going so far as to envision him in shining armor). Upon her discovery of this disturbing crush, Margaret decides her only recourse is to have "Dickie" (as Susan has taken to calling Nugent) actually court Susan so she will lose her crush.

Grant decides that she is attracted to the "older man" side of him, so he plays at being a teenage type to turn her off. He dresses with his pant cuffs rolled up and pulls off some current slang (this was 1948), barging into the Turner home with a hearty "Mellow greetings, yookie dookie." Then he plays a funny word game:

Dickie: "You remind me of a man."
Susan: "What man?"
Dickie: "The man with the power."
Susan: "What power?"
Dickie: "The power of hoodoo."
Susan: "Hoodoo?"
Dickie: "You do."
Susan: "Do what?"
Dickie: "Remind me of a man..."

...and prepares to leave with a "Ready, boot? Let's scoot." Grant is surprisingly effective at this charade, probably because he looks so unassuming, completely dropping the suave screen personality viewers expect. (The wordplay is so seemingly original and clever, I've been quoting it since I first saw the movie back in the 1990s.)

The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer also allows Grant to use his gift at physical humor (as a youth he was trained in acrobatics, dancing, and pantomime) in a series of contests at a local school picnic against family friend Tommy (Rudy Vallee) at Susan's request.

It's all wonderfully fluffy and plays at no pretense of attaining classic status, even though Sheldon's screenplay won an Oscar (and yes, that's the same Sidney Sheldon who wrote all those potboiler novels that were made into TV movies in the 1980s). But Grant, Loy, and Temple are at their comedic best (although Loy is used to greater effect in the Thin Man movies), and the whole thing is a feel-good movie squared, so The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer has become one of my favorites over the years.

Storm at Daybreak directed by Richard Boleslavsky (starring Kay Francis, Walter Huston, Nils Asther, Eugene Pallette)

Storm at Daybreak (1933). Screenplay by Bertram Millhauser from the play Black-Stemmed Cherries by Sandor Hunyady.

Storm at Daybreak is another typical Kay Francis melodrama with her once again falling into the arms of a man other than her husband. Only this time, the action plays against the backdrop of the first days of World War I.

Sarajevo mayor Duchan (Walter Huston, who is said to have "discovered" Francis) is attending the parade in honor of a visit from Archduke Francis Ferdinand when the archduke is assassinated, setting off a series of events (including, in this film, a war against the Serbs) that would lead to what was known as The Great War. ("Somebody [shot] somebody, so we all got to go out and get shot," explains "Mad Russian" Leonid Kinskey.)

During the parade, Duchan is reunited with an old friend, Geza (Nils Asther), who is now a captain in the Hungarian army. Duchan brings Geza home to meet his wife, Irina (Francis), a Serb protecting some deserters (the Hungarians and Serbs had a long period of bad blood).

Soon, the house is hosting what appears to be the entire Hungarian army, and the lovely Irina proves to be the perfect hostess, charming the soldiers in a low-cut gown and beginning a romance with Geza where previously were only glares. (Eugene Pallette also has a charming series of scenes as he attempts to romance a reluctant housematron.)

Despite impressive sets and costumes (and its educational possibilities dramatizing a period and events of which modern audiences are mostly ignorant), Storm at Daybreak has little to recommend it, except to Kay Francis aficionados; she is as photogenic (with long hair in one scene) and well-dressed as always. But the story is weak and depends too much on the war — pulling Geza away from Irina time and time again — to supply the drama, and on dewy looks and screaming matches from the actors. As a result, this not very racy pre-Code is melodramatic and unbelievable, and the abrupt ending does nothing to help.

(Look for cameos by Mischa Auer as the Archduke's assassin and Akim Tamiroff as a gypsy fiddler stealing a chicken leg.)

Strangers May Kiss directed by George Fitzmaurice (starring Norma Shearer, Robert Montgomery, Neil Hamilton, Irene Rich)

Strangers May Kiss (1931). Screenplay by John Meehan from the novel Strangers May Kiss by Ursula Parrott.

Lisbeth Corbin (Norma Shearer) is a woman who espouses "modern" ideas ("We don't believe in the awful necessity of marriage") yet still seems as if she's waiting for her lover, Alan (Neil Hamilton), a foreign correspondent who is gone for long stretches at a time, to make a commitment. (He is actually the one who feels that "love and marriage mean internal combustion.")

Her aunt Celia (Irene Rich) keeps trying to get her to marry Steve (Robert Montgomery), a childhood friend who is madly in love with her, but who drinks a bit too much. Celia's arguments seem to hold water until her husband is caught with a younger woman, whereupon Celia, her foundations shattered, ends her life (the first time I've seen where the phrase "mortally embarrassed" truly applies).

Lisbeth continues to throw herself at Alan as she waits for him to settle down with her. It's obvious they're physically intimate — apparently to the point that co-star Hamilton wondered "if [Shearer] was getting enough at home" — but he continues to travel around the world without her. Eventually, after one too many up-and-leavings, Lisbeth gives up and becomes a woman of fun throughout Europe ("I'm in an orgy, wallowing. And I love it!").

Even Steve hears the stories about her, which he didn't believe "the first six or seven hundred times." But when Alan returns to finally offer himself to her, he is shocked and repulsed at her behavior. What's truly shocking, however, is discovering that such adult subjects were being addressed at the time — and the loss of that once the Production Code (also called the Hays Code) began its enforcement — and that we really have never recovered.

Strangers May Kiss is truly a Shearer showcase: her face is virtually always onscreen, and it goes through emotional ups and downs in a theatrical but not over-the-top manner. Montgomery offers engaging support, but his "best friend" role is thankless. Nowadays, his character would end up with the Shearer's, but this film follows the more "appropriate" ending, which is actually a huge disappointment for anyone who loves the pre-Code theme of the rest of the story. Watch it for the luminous Shearer, but be prepared for a letdown.

Those interested in more on Strangers May Kiss should seek out Mick LaSalle's book on pre-Code actresses in general (and Norma Shearer in particular), Complicated Women: Sex and Power in Pre-Code Hollywood. LaSalle devotes the majority of a chapter to this film alone.

The Barretts of Wimpole Street directed by Sidney Franklin (starring Norma Shearer, Frederic March, Charles Laughton, Maureen O'Sullivan)

The Barretts of Wimpole Street (1934). Screenplay by Ernest Wajda, Claudine West, and Donald Ogden Stewart from the play The Barretts of Wimpole Street by Rudolf Besier.

Wimpole Street, 1845 — In a time when maids glided across the floor as if on casters (in this case, Wilson, delightfully played by Una O'Connor), the invalid Elizabeth Barrett (Norma Shearer) — affectionately known as "Ba" — and her brood of siblings live under the tyrannical rule of their father Edward (Charles Laughton), who allows none of his children to be married, and demands love though all he inspires is fear. Any thought of dissension is met with passive-aggressive emotional manipulation ("You shall never know ... how much you have grieved and wounded your father by refusing to do the little thing he asked.").

Elizabeth's only joy is in writing her poetry, her dog Flush, and the encouraging letters she receives from fellow poet Robert Browning (Fredric March), whose work she respects and adores. Having fallen in love with her through her words, Browning takes it upon himself to visit her unannounced.

In her room (where most of the action takes place), they hit it off wonderfully in a scene filled with genuine joy. In an amusing exchange, Elizabeth asks Robert the meaning of a rather obscure passage in his Sordello. He looks confused for a bit, then replies, "When that passage was written, only God and Robert Browning understood it. Now, only God understands it!"

From that point, we know they are to be married, whatever the cost. And, though her health and her father are obstacles, each will be overcome in turn. Except for its extraordinary characters, this is in many ways a traditional romance. But the movie's great success comes in actually eliciting suspense, even though we all know that Ba eventually became famous as Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

A parallel subplot comes in the form of Elizabeth's sister Henrietta (Maureen O'Sullivan) and her burgeoning romance with a soldier. Edward puts the kibosh on that quick. ("Is it nothing to you that I shall hate you for this to the end of my life?" "Less than nothing.") Later, it comes out (euphemistically, of course — this was just after the enforcement of the Production Code) that Edward may have some sort of sex addiction that he is railing against (and trying to protect his children from inheriting?), and that he may even have some nonpaternal feelings for Ba. (Their age difference — or lack of it — may have helped: Laughton was 35 to Shearer's 32.)

Laughton plays all of his scenes with fire, but Shearer is the real star here. Some of her readings are a bit "theatrical," but mostly she is terrific as Elizabeth. She even draws the eye away from costar March, though he is perhaps at his most engagingly boyish here. Director Sidney Franklin avoids staginess through a variety of angles

Though it may seem so at first, Ba isn't that much different from other characters Shearer had played. She obviously has no husband to rebel against here, but she does defy her tyrant father's wishes, which Mick LaSalle (Complicated Women) says makes her the "spiritual sister to Jerry in The Divorcee." LaSalle, a vocal fan of Shearer's pre-Code work, also says that this film is the last of hers that "satisfies completely as both a movie and a Shearer showcase," meaning it sort of signifies the end of an era of film history.

Trivia: In 1957, Franklin made a veritable shot-by-shot remake of this film starring Jennifer Jones (Elizabeth) and John Gielgud (Edward). I have not seen it. Gielgud was one of the great actors, but I'm not sure even he could top Laughton's performance in this.

The Keyhole directed by Michael Curtiz (starring Kay Francis, George Brent)

The Keyhole (1933). Screenplay by Robert Presnell from the story "Adventuress" by Alice D.G. Miller.

Ann Vallee (Kay Francis) married her dance partner Maurice Le Brun (Monroe Owsley), and they had great success together professionally under the moniker "Maurice and Valentine". But it didn't work out, and Maurice wanted a divorce. Ann subsequently married aging millionaire Schuyler Brooks (Henry Kolker). But it turns out Maurice never went through with the divorce, and is now blackmailing Ann to keep things quiet.

When Ann goes to her sister-in-law Portia (Helen Ware) for advice, she recommends Ann leave America temporarily and let Maurice (a non-American) follow her. Then, Portia will make sure he cannot reenter the country. This quick trip abroad makes Brooks suspicious, however, so he hires private detective Neil Davis (George Brent) — who is tired of "scheming females" — to follow her.

Ann and Neil get friendly during the trip, and things get more interesting in Cuba. The handsome Brent has a natural acting style and an easygoing charm that makes it easy to see why he was such a popular romantic lead in his day (he worked with Kay Francis on at least six films, and with Bette Davis on a dozen more): he's just like a regular guy, only a little better.

The Keyhole is a lighthearted romantic comedy with just the right amount of tension. The title comes from the camera entering the story via a bedroom keyhole at the beginning, and leaving through a different one at the end. I'm sure it was a perfect diversion for Depression-era audiences (from prolific director Michael Curtiz). There are some clever twists at the end, all geared toward the expected conclusion, and even a suicide note introduced in the first scene becomes useful in tying up a loose end.

A minor subplot is provided by a one-sided romance between Hank (Allen Jenkins), a fellow private eye traveling as Neil's valet, and Dot (Glenda Farrell, later of the Torchy Blane series), a gold-digging con artist. The actors play well off each other — and Farrell is immensely charming — but their relationship offers only a little comic relief and seems mainly there to pad out The Keyhole's 70-minute running time.

Fans of Trouble in Paradise may spot George Humbert as a waiter in a couple of scenes. Humbert served Gaston Monescu (Herbert Marshall) in that film's unforgettable opening scene. Viewers with a particularly keen eye may also spot another recognizable face waiting tables: Gino Corrado. Corrado was the piano accompanist to Basil Rathbone's violinist in A Notorious Affair.

Trouble in Paradise directed by Ernst Lubitsch (starring Kay Francis, Herbert Marshall, Miriam Hopkins)

Trouble in Paradise (1932). Screenplay/adaptation by Samson Raphaelson (who worked on several films for Lubitsch) and Grover Jones from the play The Honest Finder by Laszlo Aladar.

This wonderful confection from Ernst Lubitsch is a marvelous pre–Hays Code example of what can be done to imply sex. Trouble in Paradise simply drips with it, but nothing but the slightest hint of cleavage is shown. The script is literate and flows with banter, offering the most sophisticated of comic dialogue.

Herbert Marshall stars as the dapper Gaston Monescu, "the man who walked into the bank of Constantinople, and walked out with the bank of Constantinople." We first meet him in Venice, where he has completed a robbery of François Filiba (the inimitable Edward Everett Horton), just before having a romantic dinner with his love, Lily Vautier (Miriam Hopkins).

They are both career crooks (and she has another secret, unknown to him) and their light-hearted pickpocketing of each other is my image of the ideal romantic byplay. Ever so intimate (and quite racy, if you think about it), but with a sense of fun.

Gaston and Lily's relationship begins to suffer when he puts the moves on the exceptionally beautiful (and rich!) Mariette Colet (Kay Francis, whose difficulty pronouncing Rs had her nicknamed "the wavishing Kay Fwancis" on the Warner backlot) — widow of a cosmetics king — for the 850,000 franc insurance payout that is soon to come. Gaston sets himself up as her personal secretary by laying on the charm (and discipline!), and Mariette simply glows when he is around. Lily, inserting herself as Gaston's own secretary, is a perfect delight, fussing and fuming at their relationship while trying to keep her hands from lifting little trinkets around the house.

Trouble in Paradise is ideal in many ways. It barely treads near reality — or, at least, not a reality that most of us will ever see — but that is part of its charm. At a time when most movie characters seem to be underdeveloped juveniles, it's nice to see some confident adults involved in mature situations. As Roger Ebert put it, "Both Lily and Mariette know what they want, and Gaston knows that he has it." This is cinema at its very best. It is funny, sexy, and seems fresh even today, far surpassing the modern idea of "romantic comedy."

Fortunately, it is finally available to purchase on a spectacular Criterion Collection DVD (my original VHS copy was recorded from American Movie Classics back when they lived up to their name) with extras including an informative commentary from Lubitsch's biographer Scott Eyman and one of the director's early short films. One of the best motion pictures of all time can finally find a modern audience.