The plot: rich guy dies leaving estate to nephew; nephew dies suddenly; niece disguises herself as nephew to claim money.
These days that setup takes less than a minute. But in Little Old New York, it takes 15 minutes. That might have been OK in 1923. In 2023 it had my fidgeting. I mean, why would I care about Gloria Vanderbilt or Jerry Jeff Astor or Washington "Dr W" Irving.
But it gets worse, the nephew and niece are brawling, filthy Irishmen who are so poor their belongings are being auctioned off when the caravan of legal minds pulls up to tell them of their inheritance.
Davies, sporting a really bad wig, desperately flails her arms around in an attempt to be what I assume was ''funny" in 1923. I call it the ''Robin Williams School of Comedy."
Finally, a half-hour into this mess we finally get to see Davies dressed up as a boy, pulling faces. It's not funny. Then she's asked to emote over her dying father. She can't pull it off.
I'm sorry, but the more Marion Davies movies I see - and TCM devoted a month of Tuesdays to her - the more I am convinced she was, in fact, a talentless floozy promoted way beyond her abilities by King of Misinformation William Randolph Hearst.