By the late forties the era of the screwball comedy was over, as films were moving in a different direction, comedically and otherwise. With television looming on the horizon, Hollywood would soon be in for a very rough time. Where, one wonders, would movies have gone had television not come along, or its arrival on the scene been delayed by five or ten years? Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House offers one particular way comedy might have developed.

Ad man Jim Blandings, along with his wife and two daughters, are living in a nice but way too cramped New York City apartment, as one day he gets the bright idea that it might be fun to realize his dream of building a house in the suburbs. So he buys some property in Connecticut and has one built to his precise specifications. Well, almost. Had he known the trouble he was in for he might have changed his mind. Then again he might not have. You decide. On this frail premise a wonderful film results, full of conflict between the middle class dream of owning one's own home and the the oftentimes unpleasant reality of acquiring one. Nothing comes easy in this life, as Mr. Blandings learns; but one needn't be miserable just because things don't always go one's way. There is, after all, the long run. But, Blandings asks himself every few minutes, how long is long?

This movie is a delight. It is not, I suppose, a masterpiece in the Capra-McCarey tradition, but it is a worthy successor to their thirties pictures, and may well have been a harbinger of things to come had the arrival of television not changed the cultural landscape so radically. There is real warmth in the picture, and a good deal of (W.C.) Fieldsian hard-edged reality obtruding periodically, but not so much as to leave a bad taste. The people in the film are all very smart and affluent, but decidedly of the professional upper middle not the idle rich upper class.

Lead players Cary Grant and Myrna Loy plays Mr. and Mrs. Blandings to perfection; while Melvyn Douglas is fine as their pragmatic lawyer friend, who often has to bring up unpleasant topics, such as how the real world works. There is, too, a wonderful sense of what for want of a better term one might call the romance of suburbia, which was in its infancy in the immediate postwar years, as one sees the woods and streams that drew people to the country in the first place. These people are most definitely fish out of water in the then still largely rural Connecticut. In a few short years things would change, as the mad rush to suburbia would be in full gear, destroying forever the pastoral innocence so many had yearned for in the small towns, which soon would be connected by highways, littered with bottles and cans, their effluvia rivaling anything one would encounter in the city.
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