Paul Newman so effortlessly spiced up his dramatic roles with casual comic touches, that it was always something of a shock to see his flatfooted attack when dishing out straight or even romantic comedy. No Cary Grant he. Working with wife Joanne Woodward (she's a smash in her early deglamorized mode, but becomes undone once she goes all Parisian chic) off of a dopey script from Bob Hope/Danny Kaye specialist Melville Shavelson, we’re asked to coo as he enlivens her drudge character (she calls herself a 'semi-maiden') and she tames his tomcat ways. Fortunately, lensers Daniel Fapp in L.A. & Loyal Griggs grabbing location/travelogue stuff in Paris (the stars never left the Paramount studio) make the whole thing look so piss-elegant, it’s often a pleasure just to look at.
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