It's 1947 and Cary Grant is an artist with a notorious reputation for misbehavior, mostly undeserved. See, he's really a perfect bourgeois, lives in an orderly apartment serviced by a private elevator, dresses in suits and ties, speaks flawlessly before student bodies, and has the morals of a teacher in a parochial school. It's just that his work -- painting, of which we see no evidence whatever -- takes him sometimes into low places.
In any case, the high-schoolish Shirley Temple, a bobby soxer, sees him speaking to her class and develops an intense crush on her "knight in shining armor." Kids: the bobby soxers were so named because the girls of the period wore white ankle socks with the tops folded down. They all worshiped Frank Sinatra and danced jitterbugs and -- well, you get the idea.
Temple wangles her way into Grant's apartment one night when it's empty, without his knowledge. Later, he returns, doesn't see her dozing on the couch, gets comfortable with his robe, a drink, and a book, sits in an easy chair -- and Shirley Temple wakes up and says hello at the same time the door bursts open and the Assistant District Attorney, Rudy Valley, and some police officers barge in.
He winds up in front of the judge, who happens to be Temple's older sister and legal guardian, Myrna Loy. Anyone must understand Loy's perturbation. After all, Temple is only seventeen, while Grant is pushing forty. But she's a wise judge and, sensing the truth, sentences Grant to an indefinite period of squiring Temple around to high school hangouts, until her infatuation wears off.
It has its amusing moments. One is when Grant is first seized in his flat, wearing his robe, with a drink in his hand, staring dumbfounded alternately at the door and at Temple stretched out on the couch. Nobody is better at this kind of thing.
Other amusing moments follow as Grant decides to overplay his role as a teen age escort. He folds up his hat brim, rolls up the bottom of his trousers, loses the tie, and adopts the mannerisms of the kids he's being forced to hang with. "Mellow greetings, Yukey Dukey." At the town picnic, he enters several contests -- the three-legged race, the obstacle course, and so on -- and is beaten by the gloating Assistant District Attorney each time except for the final race, which is rigged so that Grant wins the Grand Prize. Grant is like a child, with his bronze cup. He fawns over it. By himself, he practices being modest when others compliment him on his shiny new cup. He does it all in mime too. What a performer.
The story runs completely out of steam during the climactic dinner scene. People shout and argue across the restaurant table while a band keeps interrupting to play Happy Birthday. It's the kind of forced pace that writers use when they've run out of ideas. Too bad, because what preceded it was sometimes pretty funny.
In the end, Temple returns to her puppyishly loyal boyfriend and Grant steals Myrna Loy from the Assistant District Attorney. Everyone winds up happy except the Assistant District Attorney. Well, maybe he's married to his job after all. He's certainly been earnest enough.
In any case, the high-schoolish Shirley Temple, a bobby soxer, sees him speaking to her class and develops an intense crush on her "knight in shining armor." Kids: the bobby soxers were so named because the girls of the period wore white ankle socks with the tops folded down. They all worshiped Frank Sinatra and danced jitterbugs and -- well, you get the idea.
Temple wangles her way into Grant's apartment one night when it's empty, without his knowledge. Later, he returns, doesn't see her dozing on the couch, gets comfortable with his robe, a drink, and a book, sits in an easy chair -- and Shirley Temple wakes up and says hello at the same time the door bursts open and the Assistant District Attorney, Rudy Valley, and some police officers barge in.
He winds up in front of the judge, who happens to be Temple's older sister and legal guardian, Myrna Loy. Anyone must understand Loy's perturbation. After all, Temple is only seventeen, while Grant is pushing forty. But she's a wise judge and, sensing the truth, sentences Grant to an indefinite period of squiring Temple around to high school hangouts, until her infatuation wears off.
It has its amusing moments. One is when Grant is first seized in his flat, wearing his robe, with a drink in his hand, staring dumbfounded alternately at the door and at Temple stretched out on the couch. Nobody is better at this kind of thing.
Other amusing moments follow as Grant decides to overplay his role as a teen age escort. He folds up his hat brim, rolls up the bottom of his trousers, loses the tie, and adopts the mannerisms of the kids he's being forced to hang with. "Mellow greetings, Yukey Dukey." At the town picnic, he enters several contests -- the three-legged race, the obstacle course, and so on -- and is beaten by the gloating Assistant District Attorney each time except for the final race, which is rigged so that Grant wins the Grand Prize. Grant is like a child, with his bronze cup. He fawns over it. By himself, he practices being modest when others compliment him on his shiny new cup. He does it all in mime too. What a performer.
The story runs completely out of steam during the climactic dinner scene. People shout and argue across the restaurant table while a band keeps interrupting to play Happy Birthday. It's the kind of forced pace that writers use when they've run out of ideas. Too bad, because what preceded it was sometimes pretty funny.
In the end, Temple returns to her puppyishly loyal boyfriend and Grant steals Myrna Loy from the Assistant District Attorney. Everyone winds up happy except the Assistant District Attorney. Well, maybe he's married to his job after all. He's certainly been earnest enough.