I saw LOVE IS A RACKET at the Museum of Modern Art on a dismal, rainy, slushy winter day, and it is exactly the bubbly pre-Code cocktail I would have dreamed up as the ideal entertainment for such a time. The plotsome nonsense about a "milk racket" and a flock of rubber checksis merely a flimsy scaffolding for all the fun stuff. This flick has everything: non-stop slang and snappy patter, great music and settings (many scenes take place in Sardi's, or a reasonable facsimile thereof), gratuitous leg art, a practical-joke-loving goon, and a gotten-away-with murder. Loath to waste time on exposition, the movie just plunges us into a world of racketeers, Broadway babies, and reporters who wake up at 5 pm, go on the town, and come back to do a little furious two-finger typing before dawn.
If this is a pre-Code movie about reporters, then logically it must feature Lee Tracy. Sure enough, though he isn't the star, he's the hero's best pal, and he's at his shamelessly scene-stealing best. He gives every small moment a riveting flourish: juggling a telephone and a shaving brush; body-checking another reporter to get to the phone; declaring his love for Ann Dvorak through a mouthful of steak ("Say, if you loved me half as much as you love that steak I'd surrender just out of pity," she replies tartly); hamming up the agony as he climbs into a cold bath in his pajamas to win a $50 bet; delivering lines like, "Well I'll be a double-jointed son of a...Bulgarian acrobat." But Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. holds his own in the lead, helped by a perfect profile, a twinkle in his eye and a sense of mischief. He has some sexy moments and also some very funny ones, like when he curtsies to a "pansy" dress designer, or announces that he's "going to get what was known among the ancient Athenians as 'swacko.'"
Ann Dvorak's role gives her little to do besides hang around vainly hoping Doug will notice her, but she does get some nice, biting lines, as when she replies to her rival's polite how-do-you-do, "Oh, fine. Just a slight touch of leprosy." Frances Dee looks luscious and wears the cat-with-the-cream expression of a girl who knows her face will get her whatever she wants. Lyle Talbot, dressed as usual in black tie and a light coating of slime, plays the gangster who runs the milk racket, and delivers the movie's best line (see the subject line above) when he makes a heavy play for Miss Dee.
The most mind-blowing scene is set in a ravishing art deco penthouse where hot jazz plays on the radio ("Hittin' That Bottle") while the hero discovers a corpse and covers up the murder in a shocking, ruthlessly clever way. Under the froth, this is an astringent movie. Fairbanks's reporter has zero interest in taking on corrupt forces for the public good; it might be bad for his health, or at least his ability to get a good table at Sardi's. A cold-blooded murder is shrugged off because, after all, the guy deserved to die. And Fairbanks concludes the film with a brilliant speech about why "Love is just a mental disorder": it makes you waste your money, lie awake at night worrying, wait two hours for dinner when you're "hungry as a toothless timberwolf," and generally make an errand-boy and a fool of yourself. He vows that he will never again fall for one of these lady "racketeers." Somehow, with Ann Dvorak standing by, I have trouble believing him.
If this is a pre-Code movie about reporters, then logically it must feature Lee Tracy. Sure enough, though he isn't the star, he's the hero's best pal, and he's at his shamelessly scene-stealing best. He gives every small moment a riveting flourish: juggling a telephone and a shaving brush; body-checking another reporter to get to the phone; declaring his love for Ann Dvorak through a mouthful of steak ("Say, if you loved me half as much as you love that steak I'd surrender just out of pity," she replies tartly); hamming up the agony as he climbs into a cold bath in his pajamas to win a $50 bet; delivering lines like, "Well I'll be a double-jointed son of a...Bulgarian acrobat." But Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. holds his own in the lead, helped by a perfect profile, a twinkle in his eye and a sense of mischief. He has some sexy moments and also some very funny ones, like when he curtsies to a "pansy" dress designer, or announces that he's "going to get what was known among the ancient Athenians as 'swacko.'"
Ann Dvorak's role gives her little to do besides hang around vainly hoping Doug will notice her, but she does get some nice, biting lines, as when she replies to her rival's polite how-do-you-do, "Oh, fine. Just a slight touch of leprosy." Frances Dee looks luscious and wears the cat-with-the-cream expression of a girl who knows her face will get her whatever she wants. Lyle Talbot, dressed as usual in black tie and a light coating of slime, plays the gangster who runs the milk racket, and delivers the movie's best line (see the subject line above) when he makes a heavy play for Miss Dee.
The most mind-blowing scene is set in a ravishing art deco penthouse where hot jazz plays on the radio ("Hittin' That Bottle") while the hero discovers a corpse and covers up the murder in a shocking, ruthlessly clever way. Under the froth, this is an astringent movie. Fairbanks's reporter has zero interest in taking on corrupt forces for the public good; it might be bad for his health, or at least his ability to get a good table at Sardi's. A cold-blooded murder is shrugged off because, after all, the guy deserved to die. And Fairbanks concludes the film with a brilliant speech about why "Love is just a mental disorder": it makes you waste your money, lie awake at night worrying, wait two hours for dinner when you're "hungry as a toothless timberwolf," and generally make an errand-boy and a fool of yourself. He vows that he will never again fall for one of these lady "racketeers." Somehow, with Ann Dvorak standing by, I have trouble believing him.