A Night at the Opera (1935)

dir. Sam Wood
writ. James Kevin McGuinnes (story), George S. Kaufman & Morrie Ryskind (screenplay)
feat. Groucho Marx, Chico Marx, Harpo Marx, Kitty Carlisle, Allan Jones, Walter Woolf King, Sig Ruman, Margaret Dumont

What praise hasn't been written about the Marx brothers? Somewhere, some joker has surely penned a doctoral dissertation on Harpo as a symbol of the unfettered id, likely deliberately omitting his importance as the one who gets the job done, even if that job is banging someone on the head with a hammer. I can only skirt the fray on the bros, their sharp circular word play reminiscent of the needful escapism of my high school years when a friend and I would run similar language loop-de-loops in efforts to alternately confuse, irritate and entertain each other. But no one else found those gags funny (or coherent), where the writers behind the Marx routines rouse the viewer to delightfully absurd, and lofty, heights. The contract negotiations between Groucho and Chico play illiteracy against the nonsense of legalese, the latter ensnaring the former until the men stumble into a verbose mess and simply tear their way free. In the process, the brothers' way of handling the world is demonstrated; they create the problem, then leave it behind.

But it is aggressive lunacy, best personified by hammer wielding Harpo but embraced by the whole troupe, that pushes both the humor and craftsmanship to transcendent peaks. Groucho's casual acceptance of the overcrowded stateroom, welcoming each new and increasingly ridiculous arrival, amplifies the humor, his easygoing manner highlighting the chaos by remaining above it. He is the master of ceremonies and won't be drawn into the turmoil.

And to remind the audience that these boys aren't just about comedy, the song and dance scene where Chico and Harpo take up instruments on the ship showcases the range of their talents. First, a dance number that seems to spout from a feverish Busby Berkeley, the participants whirling in a frenzy, just shy of collision, followed by Chico's nimble turn at the piano, his fingers dancing as wildly as those preceding him. Harpo steps in next, pretending to be all fists at the keys, but cleverly so, banging in rhythm, all for show, before changing gears to demonstrate his elegance on the instrument of his namesake. These musical interludes might seem like a pleasant diversion to some, a break from the breathless comic antics and verbal sparring. But without them the Marx brothers would be so much less. They add depth to the reality of the films, where not only do the fellas connive, disrupt, and deceive, but where they stop to play, to bring joy and beauty to those around them.