Smooth-talking press personalities from a bygone age, chasing each other's tails and trying to get in the last word amidst a riled-up crew of snappy, witty, improv-happy verbal maestros. The breakneck pace this film is able to maintain via dialog alone is just staggering, head-spinning to the point that I nearly lost track of what was going on with the plot while my brain tried to catch up with the last three or four punchlines.

I wasn't prepared for that kind of an onslaught, and I wasn't alone: caught in the middle of all the chatter is Bruce, a mild-mannered everyman who just wants to be a nice guy, give his new fiancee time to say goodbye to her ex-husband and former coworkers, board a train and ride off into a bright, happy future of marital bliss. He's eaten alive, almost literally. The ex (Cary Grant at the height of his stardom) isn't quite ready to move on from that lost love, and though the fiancee (Rosalind Russell, in a show-stealing turn) is wise to his tricks, she (and Bruce) find themselves mired by them nonetheless. In the midst of a scheduled execution, a midnight prison break, late edition deadlines and bombshell headlines, the brusque, self-assured lady at the heart of this two-room maelstrom must choose between her lust for a juicy lead and the promise of a fresh start.

A hilarious rush of con artistry and self-preservation that seems to have outlasted the very industry it lampoons. I don’t think they make people like this any more, much less movies.