Bing Crosby is the greatest. Leo McCarey is also the greatest, or was for quite a long time. This movie, it seems to me, is not the greatest. You may disagree. Oscars, for instance. At the same time it may be time for us to consider the possibility that Oscars don’t always mean as much, in terms of permanency or profundity, as we sometimes think they do.
Not quite permanent, I am submitting. But it’s definitely relevant, as its shortcomings don’t at all diminish how vividly and instructively it illuminates the time in which it was made. Also, it does feature one of those Christmas climaxes, and Barry Fitzgerald’s Oirish schtick (he is a native, mind you, and actually authentic when he’s not milking it overly), as well as his ancient doddering faux mother.
