Director Frank Borzage goes out of his romantic comfort zone where a pair of lovers is trying to survive in a dangerous, shattered world. Here the emotional damage is in the relationship itself as the husband is suffering from PTSD arising from survivor's guilt. And in dealing with this decidedly unromantic situation Borzage's dreaminess and airiness of tone just seems all wrong. Not only is it stupidly sexist in its eschewing all medical help...psychiatry was certainly available to affluent couples in 1935...and insisting on the wife's sole responsibility to effect the healing, but it seems to trivialize the very real horrors of this particular mental illness as George Brent goes through the first three fourths of the film with insouciant charm and a never ending line of banter that we're supposed to find, as Kay Francis playing his wife does, delightfully eccentric rather than disturbingly delusional. And when Francis finally leaves him and he suddenly, magically, and most unconvincingly decides to pull himself together and declare himself cured we're supposed to buy it 'cause the couple is sitting in a snowstorm, all snuggly, while the snowflakes and the annoyingly mushy score swirls around them. And you just want to grab Borzage by his sentimental shoulders and order him to watch some Cukor or Sirk to properly restore his balance of light to darkness. Give it a C plus.
PS...I'm guessing this is the first film to even hint at global warming even though they erroneously blame it on the gulf stream.
PS...I'm guessing this is the first film to even hint at global warming even though they erroneously blame it on the gulf stream.