There's something about Hollywood movies from a certain era - the 30's and 40's mostly - that jumps out off the screen and forces you to sit up and take notice. Especially the the screwball comedies, which seem to have been written by a certain breed of sharp-witted genius that is now obsolete. It's as if people thought that this new medium of talking pictures would only work if you were entertaining every audience member for every second. The dialogue comes at you fast - almost too fast - as it caroms off the characters but manages to set up the conflicts and personality types in just a few well-placed wise cracks and raised eyebrows. My Man Godfrey from 1936 is very much a product of its time, telling a Depression-era story about class consciousness but wrapping it in layers of romance and nuttiness and sentimentality. It never doesn't work, which is an amazing feat nearly a hundred years later. William Powell is a butler to a family spoiled rotten by money and he cooly dissects them without breaking a sweat. As a spokesmen for the millions of forgotten men that would have populated the country (and many countries) then, you could hardly do any better. The mom played by Alice Brady is a like a giddy budgie flying around the house rewleased from its cage. Eldest daughter Cornelia (Gail Patrick) slithers around like a silk-clad snake, while the father of the household (Eugene Pallette) is the model for every Cohen brothers dupe. Mischa Auer as tortured genius and freeloader Carlo gives a master class in his supporting role performance. Then there are the quirky romantic leads played by Dick Powell and Carole Lombard. Powell underplays to the hilt driving Carole Lombard's Irene mad. The way Lombard plays the dizzy but desirable blonde created a whole genre that I'd venture to say no actress has matched since.