His Girl Friday (1940)

The perfect romantic screwball. Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell are NYC journalists with the love they have for getting the latest story surpassed only by their love for each other. Odd then that they -– Grant is editor Walter Burns, Russell is reporter Hildy Johnson -– cannot stand each other and were quite recently married. Not enough room in a marriage when the third and fourth partners are outsize egos. The plot is beside the point against dialogue that demands instant replay as every rounded machine-gunned line pops one after the other and on top of one another, leaving the viewer spellbound. But here goes: Hildy returns to the newsroom that is her church and busts in on Burns’ office, declaring her intent to quit and marry an insurance salesman from Albany (Ralph Bellamy), which in newspeak equals marrying a scarecrow from Kansas. Burns has one ace up his sleeve: A sizzling murder trail he knows Johnson won’t refuse. The rest is marvelous. The puns and name drops (“Archie Leech!”) crash the fourth wall, a shout to the audience that no matter how much fun they’re having watching, the actors had more fun playing it. A+

Suspicion (1941)

Subpar Alfred Hitchock still outpaces 90 percent of anything made in Hollywood 70 years ago or now. But romance-thriller “Suspicion” is a stiff. I swear Hitchcock was bored making it, because I was bored watching it, and that’s a tall order since “Suspicion” stars Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Apologies to the master and stars. History says morality-cop conservative censors –- Hays Code –- killed this tale before film was set to camera. I believe it. Plot: Wealthy gal Fontaine falls in love with wealthy party boy lothario (Grant) who turns out not to be rich, but a gambling, lying, thieving heel who gets away with such deeds because he’s Cary fuckin’ Grant. When hubby’s best pal –- who is wealthy -- eventually (a long eventually) turns up dead, wifey fears for her own life. Cue scariest glass of milk ever. Cue ... nothing happens. Look, some scenes rock -- that glowing milk, the play of shadows as a bird cage -- but this is a slog, and a sexist drudge as it plasters a heroine who must learn to keep her trap shut and not doubt her crap-o hubs. Because he’s Cary Grant. B-

Notorious (1946)

His dames typically died harsh, and he had crazy Mommy Issues. But Alfred Hitchcock’s run of films is unchallenged. Dig “Notorious.” Made just after WWII and before the arrival of Better Dead Than Red! American patriotism crushed free thought, this plays damn smart if you look between the Hayes’ Code lines. Here, a CIA agent (Cary Grant) forces the American daughter (Ingrid Bergman) of a Nazi spy to romance another SS Bootlicker (Claude Rains) to get any secrets he has cooking. And that he does: Atomic bomb deeds. Straight plot. Melodrama. Suspense. The title is a twisted joke: Grant’s bosses sit and damn Bergman as unwomanly and quite expendable whether she gets the goods or not, for she likes sex and liquor, her notoriety. Never mind these men, Grant included, enjoy skirts and booze. (Look for the lady at the party who knows Grant.) Hitchcock lays American hypocrisy flat with a stealth punch. How can we look these men in the eye? On Grant, we cannot. He is consistently shown from behind, his face a mystery for long stretches until he finally sees the damage his spy gaming has wrought. The final scene is ambiguous and pure Hitchcock genius. A

North by Northwest (1959)

I forgot just how funny Alfred Hitchcock’s early, genius spy-flick thriller “North by Northwest” is, until a recent watch on cable. Coolest Man Ever Cary Grant plays NYC ad guy Roger Thornhill, who gets stuck in a giddily preposterous mistaken identity chase across the U.S. of A with silent killers, the CIA, a dame, and Mount Rushmore all to follow. Early in, Grant as Thornhill is seized by two goons who try to kill him via a bottle of bourbon and a fake DUI car crash. Comedy gold hits: Smashed-ass Grant drives his way to jail, where his first and only call is to his mother. Literally, his mommy. Roger’s indignant. The cop near busts a tooth smirking. Hitchcock and writer Ernest Lehman (“Sweet Smell of Success”) turn 500 screws, add in murder, a mystery woman (Eva Marie Saint) with stranger/train sex on her inscrutable mind, and James Mason as a smooth villain with his own slippery identity. Oh, and that crop duster. So cool, Bond soon ripped it off. Hitchcock is having a cackling ball, yanking his camera to dizzy high spots, and letting Mason “punch” the screen. Knock out. Hitchcock kills it. A+

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

I need to get this out: “The Philadelphia Story” opens on a gag of a man shoving a woman to the ground, and the joke she got “socked” runs throughout. That shit is not funny. Not then or now, or ever. That said, I do dearly love this deserved classic, the writing, banter, delivery, and cast: Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Ruth Hussey, and the child actress Virginia Weildler, can you top that? Plot: Philly society divorcee Tracy (Hepburn) is up for marriage No. 2, but her ex (Cary Grant) hangs close because Tracy’s family loves the guy unconditionally, and in an elaborate plot he has two gossip mag reporters (Stewart and Hussey) in tow to record the surely doomed nuptials. See, the ex loves the bride, and as hijinks, misunderstandings, and boozy drinks flow, soon so does Stewart’s wordsmith. I shall not divulge more, just watch. This is comedy romance at the tallest order, it makes you swoon for everyone on screen, with Stewart pushing charm, Grant smoothness, and Hepburn brass and brains. Yes, many plot ideas are way past sexist and stagnant, but this film shines. Love the journalism jokes, too. A-

Charade (1963)

This. THIS is what “Tourist” -– the dull-flat romantic caper with Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie -– wanted to be, and failed. Starring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, with assist from George Kennedy, James Coburn, and Walter Matthau, twisty-turny, tongue-in-cheek thriller/comedy “Charade” follows a new divorcee (Hepburn) whose Parisian rich ex-husband turns up dead before the legal papers can be signed. Woe for her, because $250,000 is missing, and the cops and the crooks know in their blood Ms. Hepburn has it. Enter Grant’s slippery admitted conman who switches identities quicker than he does clothes, and this film -– directed by Stanley Donen (“Singin’ in the Rain”) -– is a hoot of 1960s cool/suave. The turncoats, betrayals, and reveals are played for suspense and laughs, alternating one after the other, none better than when a parade of men stalk into dead hubby’s funeral, studying and abusing the corpse, making sure he’s dead. Grant is old enough to be Hepburn’s father, but the “ick” factor is joked away, with Hepburn on top, so to speak, even if some of the “you’re-just-a-girl” shtick is sexist. Doesn’t distract, though, from this cinematic shell game. Hepburn shines, as always. B+