Two Smart People (1946)

Two Smart People (1946) is a goofy capersome madcap kinda screwball-styled film noir-ish buddy movie style road movie style (train would be more accurate) government bond smuggling romance adventure movie, although to call it either a thriller or a film noir might indeed be stretching the definitions of both, though it is an event-filled journey that Two Smart People follows.

Yet Two Smart People (1946) does find its way on to our radar screens, not in the least because it is directed by film noir scion Jules Dassin, making of it Grade-A material for our investigative teams of ardent noireaux.

So there it lies, amid the midst of the mists of mid-twentieth-century American cinema, and from there Two Smart People (1946) emerges as a curious artifact—a seemingly minor entry in the oeuvre of director Jules Dassin that belies its classification as a mere “B-movie.”

This Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM) production, featuring Lucille Ball, John Hodiak, Lloyd Nolan, and Elisha Cook Jr., has often been relegated to the shadows by film historians obsessed with Dassin’s later, arguably more canonical contributions to the film noir pantheon (Brute Force, The Naked City, Thieves’ Highway, Night and the City).

And yet, and yet, Two Smart People evinces a singular charm and stylistic élan that, in many respects, hearkens back to an airier, more effervescent cinematic tradition—one far removed from the existential bleakness of the typical post-war noir thriller.

One cannot sufficiently address the manifold qualities of this piece without acknowledging its precarious balance of tonal elements. Multiple contemporary and later commentaries have mistakenly labeled it a comedy (even Leonard Maltin’s influential guidebook, ironically, bemoans the paucity of laughs).

In truth, the film is better understood as a hybrid crime romance, rife with undercurrents of the con-artist subgenre, and tinged, in certain sequences, with the vivacity of a Lubitsch-like romantic fantasy. The presence of Lucille Ball—whom modern audiences know primarily for her comic virtuosity in I Love Lucy—contributes to this confusion.

The impetus for comedic expectation, however, is dispelled by the film’s moody cinematography, intermittently tense sequences, and the narrative device of stolen bonds kept in a covert location (a cookbook, no less), all of which anchor the story firmly within the orbit of crime, suspense, and an undercurrent of moral ambivalence.

The diving board establishing shot in Two Smart People (1946)

Rather than dismiss the film as an inferior, halfhearted effort, a more nuanced approach reveals the production’s multiple strengths, including the luminous cinematography by Karl Freund and the easy rapport among the leads—particularly Ball’s laconic chemistry with Hodiak.

John Hodiak in Two Smart People (1946)

Although the script is often derided as slight or contrived, one senses that the enterprise’s distinct allure resides less in the intricacies of the crime plot than in the interplay of personalities, the sumptuousness of the locales, and the sentimental core that emerges from the central couple’s improbable romance.

Lucille Ball in Two Smart People (1946)

Even the final extended sequence at Mardi Gras, replete with costumes, jostling crowds, and swirling lights, underscores the film’s subtle capacity to revel in visual splendor, forging a lighthearted if bittersweet resolution.

In the sections that follow, we shall examine the film’s production context, the interplay of performance styles—particularly focusing on Lucille Ball’s fascinating transition from cinematic anonymity to later comedic stardom—its cinematographic qualities, thematic resonances, and the invaluable vantage provided by a feminist critique.

Along the way, we shall endeavor to unravel how Two Smart People has long been misunderstood and why, perhaps, it deserves reevaluation as an underrated gem of post-war American cinema.

The post-war cinematic landscape was replete with crime thrillers, many of which bore the gritty imprimatur of Warner Bros. or the Expressionistic flair of RKO’s noir cycle. Two Smart People was, however, produced under the aegis of MGM, a studio long celebrated for its glamorous aesthetics, lavish set design, and preference for high-key lighting.

It thus stands to reason that the film, though thematically flirting with such noir staples as stolen bonds, double-crosses, and an undercurrent of moral ambiguity, retains a certain elegant sheen that sets it apart from the brooding ferocity often showcased by, say, a comparable Warner Bros. picture.

The studio’s partiality to polish is abundantly clear in the film’s sumptuous train sequences, replete with softly lit interiors, classic costuming, and a surprising reliance upon fluid camera movements. That Jules Dassin was at the helm is a curious fact indeed, for only a year after Two Smart People, he would direct the unrelentingly bleak Brute Force.

Yet in this film, Dassin leans more toward the breeziness of a quasi-road movie, wherein a con man (John Hodiak) is escorted across the country by a benevolent detective (Lloyd Nolan) so he can do time for the bonds he stole but stashed away.

Accompanying them, in a shifting game of alliances, is Lucille Ball’s Ricki Woodner, herself on the lam from a con in Arkansas and aware that Hodiak’s character, Ace Connors, possesses a fortune in hidden bonds. Eventually, they wind their way to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, culminating in a visually arresting set piece that brandishes carnival energy and the flourish of color (despite the black-and-white palette) that only an MGM budget could effectuate, or effect, is that the same word, hard to say, kinda both meaning the same thing, to effect, put into effect, effectuate.

In this context, the film displays MGM’s hallmark of heightened glamour even while dealing with a distinctly unsavory milieu of con artistry, duplicity, and cunning.

While critics have pointed out that this approach sacrifices the “hard edge” that a Warner Bros. or RKO might have supplied, one might argue that it actually grants Two Smart People a unique advantage: it situates the moral tension within an atmosphere of romantic possibility, thereby generating a curious synergy of cynicism and sentimentality.

Central to the film’s aesthetic success is the accomplished cinematography of Karl Freund. Freund’s pedigree was already formidable by this point: he had served as cinematographer for Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), a paragon of German Expressionism, and had shot Dracula (1931) for Universal, forging some of the early lexicons of horror ambiance.

Later, of course, he would become famously associated with the I Love Lucy television series, directing nearly 150 episodes and refining a three-camera filming technique that revolutionized multicam sitcoms.

In Two Smart People, Freund’s hand is most evident in the film’s luminous quality, a choice that paradoxically preserves a measure of tension. He employs occasional Expressionistic flourishes—notice the use of shadows whenever the furtive gangster figure Fly Feletti (Elisha Cook Jr.) lurks near doorways or slinks through nightscapes.

Elisha Cook Jr., known for portraying weaselly or menacing subordinates (he had memorably played Wilmer in The Maltese Falcon), here benefits from Freund’s adept command of chiaroscuro. One can detect a pointed emphasis on the geometry of train windows, moonlit cacti (in the southwestern sequences), and the reflection of lamplight in cramped compartments.

Thus, the film’s visual texture arises from a tension between MGM’s glossy aesthetic (which lovingly bathes Lucille Ball’s visage in soft, glamorous lighting) and the creeping gloom of the con-man narrative.

Even the high-spirited Mardi Gras finale, though ostensibly frenetic and carnival-like, is bathed in swirling pockets of darkness, offset by bright, shimmering costumes. Shadows from costumed revelers cross the frame in bold relief, evoking the borderline delirium of a city in full festive mode.

Freund’s camera, rarely content with static arrangement, indulges in slow pans that track characters weaving through crowds, culminating in a sense that the city itself is an elaborate labyrinth of illusions—mirroring the labyrinthine ruses of the film’s con-artists.

The triumvirate of Ball, Hodiak, and Nolan anchors the film’s character dynamics. John Hodiak, freshly visible from Hitchcock’s Lifeboat and the subsequent noir Somewhere in the Night, imbues his role as Ace Connors with a veneer of suave self-assurance—though certain critics have noted that he struggles at times to manifest the breezy, debonair essence the script demands.

Indeed, Hodiak’s portrayal lacks the roguish, comedic sparkle that might have elevated the role to a more iconic standard. Still, his gentle chemistry with Ball remains palpable, facilitating the film’s pivot from borderline crime caper to sentimental romance.

Lucille Ball’s presence in Two Smart People has long been overshadowed by her comedic reputation in later decades. Yet she had accumulated extensive film experience prior to her explosion as the “First Lady of Television.” At the time of production, she reportedly dreaded this role, sensing that it would be her swan song at MGM.

Critics and historians have often ascribed her subdued performance to an uninspired script, but a more careful viewing reveals a nuanced portrayal of a woman whose tough exterior as a con artist belies an emerging vulnerability. Ball’s Ricki Woodner is neither the brassy showgirl nor the klutzy comedic persona that later incarnations of Lucy Ricardo would lead audiences to expect.

Elisha Cook Jr in Two Smart People (1946)

Rather, she balances a streetwise cynicism—chiding Hodiak for his romantic illusions—with fleeting flickers of yearning for a stable, more honest life.

Equally important is Lloyd Nolan’s detective Bob Simms. Bobby Simms, aye, old Bob, Bobster, Bobby Bobby Bobby-boy Simms, yep. The film invests him with an unusual degree of warmth and humor for a law enforcement figure. He is less a relentless policeman bent on delivering Ace to justice and more a benevolent counselor seeking to persuade Ace toward moral rectitude.

he relaxed interplay between Nolan and Hodiak, who had also co-starred in the moody noir Somewhere in the Night (1946), forms the stable center of the film. Simms’s role is critical: he is the on-screen surrogate for the audience’s moral perspective, neither wholly condemning nor wholly condoning Ace’s con artistry, but subtly urging him to do the right thing and, perhaps, to follow his heart with Ricki.

The film’s plot, as gleaned from the numerous viewer commentaries and critiques over the years, pivots around a seemingly overplayed MacGuffin: the stolen bonds, hidden from the very first scene in a culinary tome from which Ace plans to glean gastronomic tips.

Despite the formulaic aspect of this device, it ably ignites the undercurrent of suspense running throughout the film. Every major character—Ricki, Detective Simms, and the twitchy Fly Feletti—seeks to obtain, or at least locate, the bonds. Jules Dassin’s direction invests these pursuits with a sense of low-level tension.

Elisha Cook Jr and Lucille Ball in Two Smart People (1946)

The locomotive journey from California to New Orleans (with a stop in El Paso, Mexico across the border, and ultimately the Mardi Gras carnival) provides an episodic structure that fosters comedic vignettes (as Ricki and Ace repeatedly sabotage each other’s cons) and fleeting moments of sincerity (a candlelit dinner, confessions shared during scenic southwestern nights).

What truly distinguishes Two Smart People from unremarkable programmer films of its ilk is the manner in which this comedic road-movie structure cedes at intervals to pockets of noirish danger. Elisha Cook Jr. skulks in the background, hoping to corner Ace and secure the stolen bonds for himself.

The tenuousness of Ace’s arrangement with the law (he expects a lighter sentence if he cooperates) adds a moral dimension: to what extent can Ace truly go straight if temptation—manifested in both the promise of easy money and Ricki’s ambiguous allegiances—remains so strong?

Lloyd Nolan in Two Smart People (1946)

At the film’s crescendo, the Mardi Gras setting—often praised by contemporary watchers as the highlight—infuses the narrative with an oneiric, carnival-like aura, culminating in a tense encounter among the throngs of revellers. The costumed crowds, swirl of jazz, and shimmering lights act as a confounding labyrinth, reminiscent of the classic comedic trope of mistaken identities and improbable meetings.

Yet again, and yet, and yet again, the stakes here are ominously higher: gunfire, threatened violence, and the possibility that Ace might choose betrayal over love (or that Ricki might do the same). Although some commentators have lamented that the Mardi Gras sequence overstays its welcome, it remains a visually evocative set piece that accentuates the film’s central tension between illicit pursuits and the redemptive possibility of romance.

Viewing Two Smart People through a feminist critical lens reveals a tapestry of themes centered on female autonomy, romantic manipulation, and the social constraints shaping women’s roles in post-war American cinema.

Lucille Ball’s portrayal of Ricki Woodner is emblematic of the resourceful con woman who navigates a male-dominated environment replete with lawmen, mobsters, and unscrupulous opportunists. Although the script frequently undercuts her agency—most notably by situating her ultimate destiny in the orbit of John Hodiak’s Ace—her character emerges as an unusually savvy figure whose moral ambivalence speaks to deeper anxieties about women’s independence in an era on the cusp of widespread social transition.

One can first note that Ricki’s introduction depicts her as the orchestrator of a lucrative swindle, in which she aims to con hapless men out of their money by selling fraudulent oil wells or forged paintings.

This role confers upon her a degree of mastery typically reserved for male antiheroes in classical Hollywood crime films. Rather than simply being the femme fatale who seduces a gullible leading man into ruin, Ricki’s brand of con artistry underscores her canny intellect and resilience. She is every bit “one of the guys” in terms of cunning.

This parity, however, is complicated by the broader narrative imperatives. The screenplay insists on charting Ricki’s journey toward romantic redemption, a path that, in effect, subordinates her criminal enterprise to her emotional entanglement with Ace, the con man from whom she learns new layers of self-awareness and moral consciousness.

One might interrogate the concluding sequences of Two Smart People to discern whether Ricki, by sacrificing her stake in the stolen bonds, is effectively relinquishing her financial autonomy in favor of normative domestic aspirations.

Indeed, the film’s final emphasis on love, reconciliation, and moral rectitude can be read as a microcosm of post-war Hollywood’s reaffirmation of traditional gender roles: the resourceful female con artist, once emancipated by her wits and street smarts, effectively transitions into a figure whose chief impetus is the romantic union with a male counterpart.

By sentimentalizing her involvement with Ace, the film tacitly suggests that the “right choice” for a woman is to forgo personal gain in favor of emotional and ethical rectitude—an argument that aligns with the mid-century American cultural climate, where women, many of whom had assumed unprecedented independence during the war years, were pressured to return to a more domesticated role.

Saguara classic in Two Smart People (1946)

Yet, it would be reductive to claim that Ricki lacks autonomy entirely. Even as she is drawn into Ace’s orbit, her actions in the Mardi Gras scene—undertaken with nerve and resourcefulness—underscore that she remains a co-agent of the film’s climactic resolution. She is no passive damsel but a protagonist whose choices significantly influence the outcome.

Vladimir Sokoloff in Two Smart People (1946)

While the film ultimately endorses the restitution of social norms (the policeman must do his duty, the criminals must atone, and the woman must find solace in romantic love), Ricki’s presence nonetheless signals a momentary disruption of post-war gender conventions, wherein a woman could match wits with men, brandish a measure of power, and be recognized as “smart” in her own right.

For a 1940s MGM film, this portrayal, while not radically feminist by contemporary standards, marks an intriguing negotiation of gender roles—a fleeting, partially progressive gesture toward female complexity that resonates with modern feminist interpretations of classical Hollywood cinema.

No discussion of Two Smart People would be complete without situating it in the broader chronology of Jules Dassin’s career. Perhaps the greatest point of contention among film historians is how to classify this comparatively lighthearted entry within the context of Dassin’s subsequent pivot toward more hard-edged material.

Having directed a few less memorable comedies prior to 1946 (A Letter for Evie, for instance), Dassin here demonstrates an early inclination toward crime narratives—already the seeds of Rififi and Night and the City germinate in the film’s episodic structure and focus on subterfuge. Yet the overall breeziness of Two Smart People belies the more layered, cynical approach he would later refine.

Some accounts indicate that the film’s lackluster box office performance was a source of disappointment for the studio and the director alike. Nevertheless, certain Jules Dassin hallmarks glimmer through: the emphasis on atmospheric location shooting (though limited, the forays into the southwestern desert and the swirling vigor of New Orleans carnival sets are reminiscent of his later penchant for on-location realism), the morally compromised protagonist forced into uncomfortable alliances, and the presence of an antagonistic gangster figure whose ultimate comeuppance is staged with a measure of suspense and irony.

Moreover, it is worth noting that the film was co-written by Ethel Hill and Leslie Charteris. Charteris, famous for creating “The Saint,” imbues the scenario with cat-and-mouse flamboyance reminiscent of his roguish protagonist Simon Templar.

Although the resulting script might lack the narrative tightness demanded by cinematic noir, it ably fosters a scenario that merges comedic subplots with serious underpinnings—a tension that likely resonated with Dassin’s inclination to experiment with different tonal registers.

John Hodiak in Two Smart People (1946)

Critical and popular reactions to Two Smart People have oscillated over the decades. Many initial appraisals dismissed the film as a slight comedy with insufficient laughs, or a halfhearted noir overshadowed by the year’s other crime thrillers, even those that are not in fact thrilling.

The confusion in labeling persists to this day, evidenced by various film guides that still mischaracterize it as an MGM comedic trifle. Indeed, the presence of Lucille Ball, known historically for comedic roles, and certain comedic flourishes in the script have conspired to engender misplaced expectations.

Viewers seeking the moody lighting, moral murk, and tragic dimension of film noir are often confounded by the film’s lighter temperament, while aficionados of Ball’s comedic persona might be nonplussed by her low-key performance as a con woman whose wit is more sly than slapstick.

Lucille Ball in Two Smart People (1946)

Yet, reappraising the film in contemporary terms reveals a piece whose genre hybridity is one of its prime attractions. The road-movie structure, the borderline romantic flourish, and the bursts of near-noir tension coalesce into something that defies easy categorization. One might call it a “romantic crime caper,” a cinematic chimera that is free from the more oppressive constraints of either pure comedy or pure noir.

Ardent fans often highlight the set piece in New Orleans as a high point, praising Karl Freund’s dynamic camerawork and the film’s willingness to indulge in carnival spectacle. Even critics who fault the story’s contrivances typically concede that it is visually engaging, aided by MGM’s capacity for grand sets and top-tier cinematographic technique.

Despite certain misgivings about the narrative leaps of logic—particularly the notion that Lloyd Nolan’s detective would allow a convicted con man to traverse leisurely across country lines—Two Smart People nonetheless retains a “road adventure” spirit reminiscent of comedic romances like Remember the Night or Trouble in Paradise.

In that sense, it occupies a delicate position between the comedic tradition of “meet cute” and the noir tradition of “crooks on the lam,” forging a cinematic artifact that invites reexamination rather than cursory dismissal.

To cast Two Smart People as an unremarkable minor film or a whimsical misfire of Jules Dassin’s early career is to undervalue its distinct aesthetic and narrative virtues. It stands as an intriguing transitional text for a director who would soon become celebrated for incisive, gritty explorations of criminal underworlds.

Here, Dassin contributes a more muted but nonetheless skillful direction that navigates comedic interludes, romantic longing, and fleeting moments of peril. The synergy of John Hodiak’s roguish con man, Lucille Ball’s quietly expressive con woman, and Lloyd Nolan’s affable detective fosters a triadic interplay of conflicting motives, the dramatic tension heightened by Karl Freund’s luminous, textured cinematography.

The script, while straightforward, capitalizes on the galvanic potential of cat-and-mouse games, hidden bonds, shifting allegiances, and moral ambiguities—elements that would soon crystallize more forcefully in the canonical noir style.

Meanwhile, the extensive Mardi Gras sequence, though sometimes criticized for its length, underscores the film’s grand ambition to merge comedic romance with the spectacle of public festivity, culminating in a memorably stylized denouement.

From a broader vantage, Two Smart People likewise allows for a provocative feminist reading, wherein Lucille Ball’s Ricki challenges post-war gender norms by demonstrating a confidence and resourcefulness typically aligned with male characters—an emergent phenomenon within 1940s cinema that both subverted and reinforced conventional roles.

The film’s ultimate reaffirmation of romantic union and moral redemption, while certainly of its time, does not wholly negate Ricki’s intelligence or her significance as a “smart person,” in parallel with Ace.

In sum. and to sum, as a summary sum of the summation of the sum of thoughts on this,, Two Smart People offers a multifaceted experience: it is at once a warm-hearted romance, a playful train-bound travelogue, a sporadically noirish crime drama, and an example of how classical Hollywood studios such as MGM handled the shifting tastes of post-war audiences. Its slightly contrived plot should not eclipse the film’s deeper charms: the sumptuous photography, the interplay of star personas, and a gentle but persistent emphasis on the transformative power of affection—even among seasoned swindlers.

Lucille Ball’s luminous performance, buoyed by John Hodiak’s amiable con man and Lloyd Nolan’s endearing policeman, stands as a testament to the film’s capacity to evoke sincerity in the midst of subterfuge.

John Hodiak and Lloyd Nolan in Two Smart People (1946)

To rediscover Two Smart People is to realize that cinematic history’s footnotes often contain hidden gems. Although overshadowed by the epoch’s more blatant noir thrillers and overshadowed by Ball’s comedic ascendancy on television, this film endures as a testament to Jules Dassin’s eclectic range, Karl Freund’s cinematographic brilliance, and a subtle romantic spirit that asserts love can triumph over both greed and cynicism—even in a world populated by con artists and well-intentioned detectives.

The bonds may be stolen, but the viewer’s heart is willingly surrendered to the soft glow of mid-century Hollywood charm.

Two Smart People (1946)

Directed by Jules Dassin