If this movie had been a one-shot deal, standing by itself, instead of third in a series of fluffy domestic comedies starring Doris Day and Rock Hudson, it might have been more appreciated. After all, what is it except an unusually good example of what might be called neo-screwball comedy? Make it in black and white in 1941, put in Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, call it "My Favorite Hypochondriac", and you've got a hit on your hands.
Rock Hudson is no Cary Grant. Nobody is, although Grant was to replace Hudson in a later entry in the series. But Hudson had a modest flair for comedy. And here, in this context, his stupefaction and self pity are handled very well, an ironic contrast to his masculine frame and heroic features. Doris Day is no slouch either. She was no longer a spring chicken but she's cute, sexy, and a more accomplished performer than Hudson. Tony Randall provides excellent support for the third time, though his constant drunkenness doesn't provide his character with the inventiveness of his earlier two roles. It isn't funny to simply see a man drunk. He must do or say something funny. Paul Lynde is superb as the avaricious cemetery owner. Edward Andrews is funny for a change, instead of being slimy and underhanded. He's always grumbling about how the specialists like cardiologists are making a fortune and the allergists manage to keep bankers hours because they never deal with emergencies.
The script is quite good too. Not only is the main theme ridiculous -- a hypochondriacal husband tricked into believing he's dying and trying to hide it from his wife while fixing her up with a new husband -- but the situations are studded with gags, as in a superior TV situation comedy. Just one example: Andrews is a doctor who's spent the weekend fishing. He removes his hat and reveals a sharp line across his forehead separating his blazing red features from his pale brow. Nothing is made of it. It's just there.
The dialog is keen as well. Another example: Hudson is recording a tape to be given to his wife after his demise. The farewell address sparkles with unintended jokes and ironies. (1) "Yes, I'm dying. My hypochondria finally paid off." And (2) "When I am gone, I would like you to remarry after whatever your bridge club considers a decent interval." The movie is dated of course. All movies are dated the instant they're in the can. Nobody drives jumbo American convertibles anymore. Nobody lives in houses that might charitably be described as Modern Colonial Hideous. Milkmen don't deliver milk. Doctors don't make house calls. And nobody lives on a Universal back lot with fake houses, plastic shrubbery, and astroturf lawns. And the mores are different too. Somehow, even adultery has lost the kick it used to have. But so what? We need more successful comedies. Laughter is the best medicine, although Prozac helps too.
Rock Hudson is no Cary Grant. Nobody is, although Grant was to replace Hudson in a later entry in the series. But Hudson had a modest flair for comedy. And here, in this context, his stupefaction and self pity are handled very well, an ironic contrast to his masculine frame and heroic features. Doris Day is no slouch either. She was no longer a spring chicken but she's cute, sexy, and a more accomplished performer than Hudson. Tony Randall provides excellent support for the third time, though his constant drunkenness doesn't provide his character with the inventiveness of his earlier two roles. It isn't funny to simply see a man drunk. He must do or say something funny. Paul Lynde is superb as the avaricious cemetery owner. Edward Andrews is funny for a change, instead of being slimy and underhanded. He's always grumbling about how the specialists like cardiologists are making a fortune and the allergists manage to keep bankers hours because they never deal with emergencies.
The script is quite good too. Not only is the main theme ridiculous -- a hypochondriacal husband tricked into believing he's dying and trying to hide it from his wife while fixing her up with a new husband -- but the situations are studded with gags, as in a superior TV situation comedy. Just one example: Andrews is a doctor who's spent the weekend fishing. He removes his hat and reveals a sharp line across his forehead separating his blazing red features from his pale brow. Nothing is made of it. It's just there.
The dialog is keen as well. Another example: Hudson is recording a tape to be given to his wife after his demise. The farewell address sparkles with unintended jokes and ironies. (1) "Yes, I'm dying. My hypochondria finally paid off." And (2) "When I am gone, I would like you to remarry after whatever your bridge club considers a decent interval." The movie is dated of course. All movies are dated the instant they're in the can. Nobody drives jumbo American convertibles anymore. Nobody lives in houses that might charitably be described as Modern Colonial Hideous. Milkmen don't deliver milk. Doctors don't make house calls. And nobody lives on a Universal back lot with fake houses, plastic shrubbery, and astroturf lawns. And the mores are different too. Somehow, even adultery has lost the kick it used to have. But so what? We need more successful comedies. Laughter is the best medicine, although Prozac helps too.