His hat was squashed, his tails were
ripped, he'd ground a perfectly good
olive into the floor of the bar, and
for good measure, her dress had lost
every capacity to conceal her fanny.
They sidled out as if sewn together.
Yes, we've all had such days, but in
our case they don't all flock to the
Palais de Tokyo, to roll in the isle
(spelling unhinged) and beg for fur-
ther punishment. Wherefor, we assume
for the night, we might suffer their
plight, of working for Howard Hawks.
I was not going to discuss the mov-
ie with which I lately ushered in a
further advancement in my years be-
cause there is supposed to emerge a
kind of parity between behavior and
the scale of the exit sign, drawing
ever closer. But I suppose this de-
pends on the setting one is exiting
as much as the privilege of change.
Of course this is the theory of the
great cinematic exercise before us,
but this, too, only insults its ef-
fect as premeditated, where we have
seldom enjoyed anything so buoyant-
ly reckless in our life.
Still, I was right, you were right.
Why "discuss" an occasion whose ep-
itaph is not I've lost my mind, but
rather, I've lost my leopard. Hawks
gives us this as a transitional la-
ment, which is scary enough. Better
that, than having to explain how he
makes it irresistible, to go crazy.
Howard Hawks
director
Dudley Nichols
and Hagar Wilde
script
Katharine Hepburn
Susan Vance
Cary Grant
David Huxley
Bringing Up Baby
RKO, 1938©
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