Gregory Ratoff's idea of a Parisian restauranteur with debts that drive his bookkeeper to thoughts of suicide became a vehicle for rising star Tyrone Power. He's handed what can be coyly referred to as an ingenue role (the kind that does not demand much more than standing straight and looking pretty), more specifically, an American dilettante with scarcely any money to live on and no way to get home. Owing a rather tidy sum to the restaurant owner (played by wily Adolphe Menjou), he is blackmailed into passing himself off as Russian royalty to charm a Yankee heiress. And in walks the breathtaking Loretta Young under a white lace mantilla, aware from the start that he's a fake, and working her own little scheme to land him. Young is as assured as Katharine Hepburn was in "Holiday," although you get the feeling, when she's throwing fits and tossing heavy objects at her millionaire father (Charles Winninger), the people in charge wanted to invest her performance with a little of the spirit of Carole Lombard. It's all over Tyrone Power, and considering how dapper he looks in his tie and tails (His hair has the high-gloss, Art-Deco sheen of a baby grand piano.), who could blame her? There's a funny sequence in a haberdashery with his accent waxing and waning like the phases of the moon. It's blithe, and loony, and lovely all at once, and ends with Ratoff (as the real Cossack) spouting indignantly at Power's pitiful imposture. Duplicity abounds, and everyone is wise to it including Helen Westley as Winninger's canny sister whom the mock Russian aristocrat at one point coyly slips a bodice boutonniere.
Review of Café Metropole
