At the height of the depression, while one half of Hollywood was making movies devastatingly close to home, the other half were breezily European in their settings and sensibilities. This was the case at Paramount in particular, who imported many of their directors from the continent and deliberately cultivated that sophisticated European flavour. German maestro Ernst Lubitsch was the most treasured of their acquisitions, and during the early 1930s fulfilled the studio's expectations for urbane comedies set among the idle and relatively carefree rich of far-off Europe.
Lubitsch is – and was – best known for his so-called "touch", a subtle, tasteful and very intelligent manner of hinting at the various sexual shenanigans that his characters continually get up to. But it is doing the man rather a disservice to focus so much on this, as there was a lot more to his style and to his career. Besides, a lot of the credit for the "touch" should go to writer Samson Raphaelson, as it was in the Raphelson-penned works when this clever innuendo was at its sharpest. The humour in Trouble in Paradise is all of a by-the-way fashion, with bizarrely comical phrases slipped neatly into the dialogue. What Lubitsch really does is match up with Raphaelson's sauciness on the visual side of things, dissolving from Herbert Marshall and Miriam Hopkins canoodling on a couch, to the same couch now empty, to a "Do not disturb" sign being hung on a door. But it's not all about sex. What's nice about Trouble in Paradise is that despite the protagonists being a pair of thieves, we never see anything stolen. The thefts are just implied with a nonchalant revelation after the event.
Consistently, Lubitsch's visual style is throughout one of taste and elegance. Lubitsch's sound films up to now had mostly been musicals, and although Trouble in Paradise is not a musical it is almost operatic in its stylised pace, often alternating between slow and fast scenes like the movements of a work of classical music. Lubitsch doesn't use many elaborate techniques, but simply manages the pace through careful coaching of the actors' motion and vocal delivery. The camera rarely moves, but when he does it is generally a discreet flourish to maintain the necessary rhythm. An example is when we cut from Kay Francis nattering on the phone straight into Marshall and Hopkins arguing. The shot begins with the camera dollying in on the pair, keeping the snappy pace going across the two scenes. The opening scene is smooth as a gondola on the water, the camera languidly tracking from the rubbish of the city, to the aftermath of a robbery, over to an gorgeous shot of Herbert Marshall , gazing out from a balcony with a look of exquisite melancholy in his eyes.
Which leads me onto the players themselves. It is always a joy to watch Herbert Marshall, one of the best lead men of the 30s who has become something of an obscurity today. He is utterly suited to the style and pace of Trouble in Paradise, his movements elegant as a violinist playing largo, and his voice quiet yet commanding of our attention. He is superbly matched, in an opposites-attract scenario, by a vivacious Miriam Hopkins. These days Hopkins is often dismissed as an amateurish ham, but as Trouble in Paradise demonstrates she did everything with a pinch of deliberate irony. I love the way she fires off angry tirades, her face almost rigid except for the occasional fiery flash of an eyebrow. Kay Francis, the third corner in the love triangle, is stunningly beautiful but otherwise rather bland and forgettable, although perhaps this is the point. As to the supporting players, Edward Everett Horton is always nice to see, although he is a bit underused here, and clearly hadn't quite worked out his brilliant comic persona yet. C. Aubrey Smith on the other hand, as familiar a face in thirties Hollywood as Ned Sparks, is at his very best. Being a pompous villain seems to suit him far better than the venerable patriarchs he usually portrayed.
Movies like Trouble in Paradise were popular of course because they offered escapism at a time of domestic strife. Today it remains a smart, witty, and very beautifully made confection. It is of course not nearly as touching as the raw emotion and sincerity of Warner Brothers' and Columbia's depression-era offerings, but it is nevertheless utterly enjoyable, undemanding, and treats us to the same delicate atmosphere of continental wit that it did to audiences of the time.
Lubitsch is – and was – best known for his so-called "touch", a subtle, tasteful and very intelligent manner of hinting at the various sexual shenanigans that his characters continually get up to. But it is doing the man rather a disservice to focus so much on this, as there was a lot more to his style and to his career. Besides, a lot of the credit for the "touch" should go to writer Samson Raphaelson, as it was in the Raphelson-penned works when this clever innuendo was at its sharpest. The humour in Trouble in Paradise is all of a by-the-way fashion, with bizarrely comical phrases slipped neatly into the dialogue. What Lubitsch really does is match up with Raphaelson's sauciness on the visual side of things, dissolving from Herbert Marshall and Miriam Hopkins canoodling on a couch, to the same couch now empty, to a "Do not disturb" sign being hung on a door. But it's not all about sex. What's nice about Trouble in Paradise is that despite the protagonists being a pair of thieves, we never see anything stolen. The thefts are just implied with a nonchalant revelation after the event.
Consistently, Lubitsch's visual style is throughout one of taste and elegance. Lubitsch's sound films up to now had mostly been musicals, and although Trouble in Paradise is not a musical it is almost operatic in its stylised pace, often alternating between slow and fast scenes like the movements of a work of classical music. Lubitsch doesn't use many elaborate techniques, but simply manages the pace through careful coaching of the actors' motion and vocal delivery. The camera rarely moves, but when he does it is generally a discreet flourish to maintain the necessary rhythm. An example is when we cut from Kay Francis nattering on the phone straight into Marshall and Hopkins arguing. The shot begins with the camera dollying in on the pair, keeping the snappy pace going across the two scenes. The opening scene is smooth as a gondola on the water, the camera languidly tracking from the rubbish of the city, to the aftermath of a robbery, over to an gorgeous shot of Herbert Marshall , gazing out from a balcony with a look of exquisite melancholy in his eyes.
Which leads me onto the players themselves. It is always a joy to watch Herbert Marshall, one of the best lead men of the 30s who has become something of an obscurity today. He is utterly suited to the style and pace of Trouble in Paradise, his movements elegant as a violinist playing largo, and his voice quiet yet commanding of our attention. He is superbly matched, in an opposites-attract scenario, by a vivacious Miriam Hopkins. These days Hopkins is often dismissed as an amateurish ham, but as Trouble in Paradise demonstrates she did everything with a pinch of deliberate irony. I love the way she fires off angry tirades, her face almost rigid except for the occasional fiery flash of an eyebrow. Kay Francis, the third corner in the love triangle, is stunningly beautiful but otherwise rather bland and forgettable, although perhaps this is the point. As to the supporting players, Edward Everett Horton is always nice to see, although he is a bit underused here, and clearly hadn't quite worked out his brilliant comic persona yet. C. Aubrey Smith on the other hand, as familiar a face in thirties Hollywood as Ned Sparks, is at his very best. Being a pompous villain seems to suit him far better than the venerable patriarchs he usually portrayed.
Movies like Trouble in Paradise were popular of course because they offered escapism at a time of domestic strife. Today it remains a smart, witty, and very beautifully made confection. It is of course not nearly as touching as the raw emotion and sincerity of Warner Brothers' and Columbia's depression-era offerings, but it is nevertheless utterly enjoyable, undemanding, and treats us to the same delicate atmosphere of continental wit that it did to audiences of the time.