William Powell and Kay Francis meet in a Hong Kong bar and fall instantly in love over cocktails. They say auf wiedersehen, and meet again on the ship back to San Francisco. He doesn't know she is dying, and dying fast. She doesn't know he's been grabbed by cop Warren Hymer, and is going to be hanged at San Quentin as soon as he gets off the boat.
It's so intensely, romantically heartbreaking that my usual reaction would be to roll my eyes, but in the hands of director Tay Garnett, it simply overwhelms me. Cinematographer Robert Kurrie's lighting is made for Miss Francis, and William Powell's simple, declaratory line readings give the dialogue, which never gets flowery, a passion too intense to bear unmoved.
Among the supporting players, Aline MacMahon as a confidence woman who falls for Hymer, stands out; she never met a script or cast she could not steal. What's remarkable is the way their interaction humanizes Hymer, in one of his roles that looks like one of his standard, ridiculous mugs. The bartenders that feed them cocktails and witness their passion -- Glen Cavender, Mike Donlin, Roscoe Karns, and William Halligan -- offer visual comments, as do the trail of discarded cigarettes and broken cocktail glasses, each lying in broken, satiated pairs.
As I said, I want to roll my eyes. I can't. It doesn't make me weep either. It makes me sad that I've never felt anything that intense. My fault.
It's so intensely, romantically heartbreaking that my usual reaction would be to roll my eyes, but in the hands of director Tay Garnett, it simply overwhelms me. Cinematographer Robert Kurrie's lighting is made for Miss Francis, and William Powell's simple, declaratory line readings give the dialogue, which never gets flowery, a passion too intense to bear unmoved.
Among the supporting players, Aline MacMahon as a confidence woman who falls for Hymer, stands out; she never met a script or cast she could not steal. What's remarkable is the way their interaction humanizes Hymer, in one of his roles that looks like one of his standard, ridiculous mugs. The bartenders that feed them cocktails and witness their passion -- Glen Cavender, Mike Donlin, Roscoe Karns, and William Halligan -- offer visual comments, as do the trail of discarded cigarettes and broken cocktail glasses, each lying in broken, satiated pairs.
As I said, I want to roll my eyes. I can't. It doesn't make me weep either. It makes me sad that I've never felt anything that intense. My fault.