So Bad, It’s Good

Many people will agree that romantic comedies are objectively bad films. But how did they become the way they are? What came before them? What set the precedent for these technically terrible yet endlessly entertaining and popular films? Cue the screwball comedy.

Screwball comedies were popular for a reason. They are fast-paced and funny with likeable characters and enjoyable plots. I am not going to argue that all of them are objectively bad. That opinion would be easily stated and frankly untruthful, especially when films as good as His Girl Friday (Howard Hawks, 1940) fit the screwball genre. However, as a general rule, (and while I have not personally produced a screwball comedy) I do not believe the production companies funding these films were setting out to make Academy Award winners. Screwball comedies are made to entertain - it is that simple. There is nothing extraordinary about the cinematography, the mise-en-scène or the editing. The jokes are silly and often the characters too. But something about a film that can keep up that level of silliness throughout, something about that very silly nature that just seeks to make the viewer smile is why these films are so good.

Screwball comedies were made in 1930s and 40s Hollywood. They often include themes of marriage and divorce, and if there is a divorce at the beginning of the film you can be sure there will be marriage at the end of it. In fact, regardless of whether there was a divorce at the beginning of the film you can be sure it will end in marriage. The formulaic nature of these films can be both off-putting and comforting at the same time. The Awful Truth (Leo McCarey, 1937) is one of those divorce comedies. It stars the magnificent Irene Dunne and Cary Grant and their snappy dialogue. When distrust arises within their characters’ marriage, they decide to separate. Yet, as the hour of the divorce becoming finalised approaches, both begin to wonder if it is really what they want. This film is worth watching for the chemistry between Dunne and Grant alone. Within such clearly defined framework it is nigh on impossible for a film to do anything new. And take my word for it, this film does nothing new. But it ticks all the boxes if you are looking for a funny feel good flick. Take the opening scene when Grant’s character Jerry jumps through ridiculous hoops to convince his wife he was in Florida when he wasn’t. He goes to a tanning salon and buys her a basket of oranges which he neglects to realise have a Californian stamp on their peel. Meanwhile, Dunne’s character Lucy has been spending a suspicious amount of time with her singing teacher Armand (Alexander D’Arcy), or at least a suspicious amount of time when you are already looking for a reason to point blame. The fizzling tension and spectacle these events create make the film delectable. Despite the lack of genre redefinition The Awful Truth provides, it is still so good.

Bringing Up Baby (Howard Hawks, 1938) is the screwball comedy at its peak level of ridiculousness. It is packed with misunderstanding after misunderstanding between the main characters (Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant). In the scene they first meet, Hepburn’s character Susan Vance begins playing Grant’s character Dr David Huxley’s golf ball, apparently mistaking it as her own. She then proceeds to drive his car, believing it to be hers also, in spite of Huxley’s assurances to the contrary. This leads to her driving away with Huxley hanging onto the side of the vehicle – and so their romance begins. These nonsensical occurrences that could easily be sorted out with a little clear communication accumulate throughout the movie until you want to shout at the screen. The most eccentric idea of all has to be the titular “Baby.” Despite all of this being ridiculous, there is something brilliant in the spectacle of it. (Any film is a good film when it features Cary Grant running around the house in a flowy feathery dressing gown).

Screwball comedies are formulaic and silly. They are an absolute pleasure to watch for their sheer spectacle. These things can and do co-exist. The legacy of screwball comedies continued in comedy films of the 1960s. Man’s Favourite Sport? (Howard Hawks, 1964) is a prime example, starring Rock Hudson and Paula Prentiss getting into scrapes similarly as ridiculous as Grant and Hepburn before them. Hudson’s character doesn’t know how to fish but is entered into a fishing competition. This legacy persists also in the romantic comedies of the twenty-first century (think the implausibility of any of the plots of Love Actually (Richard Curtis, 2003)), forming a large part of why audiences love them: they are so bad that they are, simply, so good.