Late screwball nonsense, with much It Happened One Night in it, this Hal Roach-produced romantic comedy is better in fits and starts than as a whole. Spoiled heiress Virginia Bruce, an always-capable blonde who's a little tentative here, escapes grandpa Claude Gillingwater's yacht and hightails it to New York, where she has the good luck to fall in and room with Patsy Kelly, who yells all her lines and is unfailingly funny. The other roommate, Nancy Carroll--an early-talkie leading lady, and a splendid one, who'd fallen on hard times by now--is a troublemaker who underhandedly gets Virginia in trouble at the department store where they all work, which, in Hollywoodish coincidence, is owned by Virginia's granddad. Newspaperman Fredric March, virtually reprising Clark Gable's Peter Warne, chases the heiress's story and falls in love with her. All reasonable enough, but some things just don't make sense. Why, why do March and editor Eugene Pallette and news photographer Arthur Lake have a drunk scene that does nothing? Why, if the leading couple has sworn each other off, do they keep gravitating back, except to rush to a happy ending? What's this island retreat of March's, where is it, and is there or isn't there a town there, as the presence of Harry Langdon at the end, as its local priest, would suggest? It rushes to a conclusion without explaining some key plot points, and Norman Z. McLeod, accomplished comic director though he was, brings it no real distinction.
Review of There Goes My Heart
