Screwball Storms
Ensemble chaos from the golden age of Hollywood comedy
If you ask me, they just don’t make comedies like they used to. At the very least, the art of the ensemble comedy has practically been lost. Back in the 1930s and 1940s, screwball comedies were an absolute force to be reckoned with, not thanks only to the rapid-dialogue provided by razor-sharp scripts, but by the stars themselves – huge personalities vying for screen time, clashing and colliding as they all try to one-up each other on a screwball playground.
What made these ensemble-driven screwball comedies so delectable wasn’t necessarily such tension, but the beauty of the storm itself. It isn’t John Barrymore versus Carole Lombard in Twentieth Century – they are a team – they generate a surreal comedic amalgamation as their farcical scheme slowly but surely spins wildly out of control. The same goes for all the other major stars in this week’s Film Flight – twelve actors in particular that make up three classic screwball films that will prove just how magical this lost art truly was. These are three Screwball Storms that will consume you with their daunting array of mix-ups and misunderstandings – in the most hilarious of ways possible.
The Three Films
- Twentieth Century (1934, dir. Howard Hawks)
A tyrannical theater director, Oscar (John Barrymore), along with his two exasperated assistants, Oliver (Walter Connolly) and Owen (Roscoe Karns), unexpectedly boards a cross-country train with his runaway star, Lily (Carole Lombard), in one of the earliest and wildest screwball comedies. Oscar fights to win Lily back as she fights to get away – for good, ideally. - Libeled Lady (1936, dir. Jack Conway)
A newspaper man, Warren (Spencer Tracy), mistakenly accuses a wealthy socialite, Connie (Myrna Loy), of being a home-wrecker, which results in a multi-million-dollar lawsuit. Desperate, Warren turns to rival reporter Bill (William Powell) to trap Connie in a home-wrecking scenario, which requires Bill to “marry” Warren’s fiance, Gladys (Jean Harlow). I think you can see where this one is going… - The Palm Beach Story (1942, dir. Preston Sturges)
Desperate for money and sick of being behind in the bills, Gerry (Claudette Colbert) decides to leave her architect husband, Tom (Joel McCrea), in order to marry a wealthy man who would fund Tom’s projects. She gets more than she bargains for when John D. Hackensacker III (Rudy Vallée), one of the richest men in the world, falls for her. Tom trails Gerry to win her back, only for John’s sister, Maud (Mary Astor), to murk up the waters when she falls for him.
How They Speak the Same Screwball Language
The incredible ensemble chemistry on display in these movies allows them to go places with their stories that others simply cannot – we aren’t watching a movie built around two people, but an array of individuals, each trying to find fulfillment in their own ways – their desires shift and morph, their alliances swip and swap as they move between each other, gaining new perspective and clarity at practically every turn – they are all on an individual journey, yet there is a commonly shared goal – they are battling each other to get there, but also helping each other get there. This is where the actors thrive – for this formula to work, their personalities must crash into each other and spark something larger than any single performance – these movies weren’t just selling stories, they were selling stars in perfect opposition.
In Twentieth Century, Howard Hawks shows why he was one of the best directors to ever bring the most out of his actors, because he understood the sum was much greater than its parts. Barrymore and Lombard are like two daring trapezists who keep us on the edge of our seats, while Connolly and Karns wait below with nets, offering the audience some comfort. Barrymore, true to his narcissist character, commands every inch of the frame like he does onstage, boasting grand gestures while delivering self-aggrandizing monologues with his booming voice – this performance might dominate a lesser cast, but not Lombard, who matches Barrymore note for note, who volleys back his bluster with fiery, physical rhythm, with equal fervor, turning their scenes into verbal tennis matches played at double speed. This winner-takes-all back-and-forth is what drives this speeding train forward – it’s a game of chicken, where Barrymore is trying to force Lombard into submission, while Lombard holds strong, resisting the urge to tap out – this shared energy allows them to carry their characters’ fairly familiar storyline to grandiose heights.
As Barrymore and Lombard fly through the air performing their death-defying tricks, Connolly and Karns skirt around with their nets, always there to make sure their co-stars never hit the ground – without Connolly and Karns, the chaos between Barrymore and Lombard would cause the story to implode. This dynamic works even better thanks to the chemistry not just between the lead and supporting actors, but between Connolly and Karns themselves – together, Connolly, an everyman pushed to his limit, who anchors the story with weary exasperation, who offers a dry humor as a palette cleanser to Barrymore and Lombard’s chaos, and Karns, a fast-talking, often-inebriated press agent who injects sarcastic energy that comments upon the absurdity, whose looseness and irreverence plays off the other characters’ high-strung nature, allow the central tension between Barrymore and Lombard to sustain, to build and evolve and culminate in a final moment of clarity that allows a new story to begins as the credits roll.
Where Twentieth Century pairs two bona-fide stars with two hilarious character actors, Libeled Lady brings four top-tier stars into perfect comic alignment. Everything becomes much more convoluted in Jack Conway’s most famous feature (in the best way possible), to the point where we’re not sure who to believe as everyone fights for what they want, whether it’s money or love or reputation – it’s an incredible trick played on the audience as these four actors constantly shift alliances and develop new motivations – they can signal one thing to one character when they intend something else entirely, resulting in an amalgamation of a match that’s sometimes two-on-two, sometimes three-on-one, but most often, seemingly, one-on-one-on-one-on-one. It’s truly dizzying.
Take Tracy, who must constantly put on six different masks to sway three different characters at any given moment – he needs Harlow to both stand by his side and never get in his way – he needs Powell to both help defeat the lawsuit and keep his hands off his woman – and he needs Loy to both succumb to his charms and admit defeat in the heat of battle. This dynamic can be found between each and every character – this all gets thrown into an overfilled cauldron and spills out into an astounding concoction of screwball that has layers upon layers. Each pair brings balance to the opposing pair – Powell and Loy, already famous for their Thin Man chemistry, anchor the romance with silky wit – while Harlow and Tracy bring edge and unpredictability that throws such romance into turmoil. What’s remarkable here is balance – each performer gets space to shine, and each relationship generates its own friction – the film doesn’t revolve around one couple, but rotates and morphs, allowing alliances to shift and comic tension to escalate from every angle. This is screwball as a four-player chess match, and it’s a reminder of how studios once crafted comedies around star ensembles, not just plots.
By the time we reach The Palm Beach Story in 1946, Preston Sturges has taken screwball to its logical extreme, yet has anchored the absurdity with the most down-to-earth story possible – such a simple story about a husband and wife who have lost their way, about the pressures of wealth young couples face in a capitalistic world, would be performed much more humbly and discreetly and dramatically in most movies from this era, but Colbert and McCrea turn that relatable material into comic gold, allowing their commentary to reach heights that most dramas could never.
The movie is a ticking time bomb in so many different ways – with the schemers Colbert and McCrea on one side and the suckers Vallée and Astor on the other – with Colbert pushing McCrea away as McCrea fights to keep Colbert at his side – with Astor emasculating Vallée while Vallée attempts to prove his love for the seemingly innocent Colbert and his manhood across from the formidable McCrea – with Astor using her wealth to woo McCrea in a moment, perhaps the first moment of her life, where she’s being denied. When you throw this all together? It functions like a controlled explosion that must be contained in order for true love to flourish. Colbert and McCrea’s grounded romantic tension keeps the film emotionally centered, but Astor, breathless and overbearing, and Vallée, monotonous and meticulous, create a bizarre sibling dynamic that throws the film completely off balance – they personify the very capitalistic pressures Colbert and McCrea face and deal with emotionally. Every scene feels like a comic relay, with each actor passing the absurdity baton at full speed. Sturges knew that screwball wasn’t just about wit—it was about momentum, and that momentum came from actors tripping over each other in the race to land the next punchline.
Flight Notes: What to Look For
- Power dynamics. Watch how control constantly shifts romantically, professionally, and emotionally.
- Timing as chemistry. These films aren’t just fast, they’re synchronized. Every glance, interruption, or stammer is part of the rhythm.
- Supporting cast impact. These movies prove you don’t need to be the lead to steal a scene – sometimes the storm brews on the edges.
Suggested Pairings
If you’re looking for more screwball comedies from this period, here are five other great options:
- Dinner at Eight (1933)
- Four’s a Crowd (1938)
- The Women (1939)
- Midnight (1939)
- The Philadelphia Story (1940)
