William Powell is a ladies' man. He moves through New York upper crust, a regular at the parties of the 400, a resident at a hotel. Where does his money come from? The ladies, whom he charms. They give him the jewelry their husbands buy them, and he sells them to pawnbroker Clarence Williams. One woman who gives him her jewelry is Olive Tell. Another, who want to marry him, is her daughter, Carole Lombard. Then he meets Kay Francis.
Powell gives a performance that is a model of diffidence verging in contempt, not just for the women, for himself. Miss Lombard gives one of her society deb performances, with a drunk scene of the type that she would come to play for comedy. It's not a terribly interesting movie for me, because there's no one to really feel sorry for. Powell's performance is spot on, of course, but he recognizes his own unworthiness, and Miss Francis falls too easily for his charms, setting up an ending that comes as little surprise. There's little of the chemistry in this Paramount movie that would make their work together at Warner Brothers so romantic. Perhaps Herman Mankiewicz lacked the powers to adapt the Rupert Hughes novel it is based on, or perhaps Hughes' novel was too mechanical. Perhaps director Lothar Mendes was simply one of those directors whose strengths lay in the mechanics of film construction. Or perhaps it was all three of them.