RamBO DUKE, baby! This is less a movie about a man than it is about what makes this man a man. And this man is made by his mustache, first and foremost, and for his open shirt, which reveals a thatch of chest hair that can be repurposed to mustache as needed. This man is a mustache man, a man whose measure is his mustache, whose mustache, it could be said, belongs not to him, but rather he belongs to…

It's a classical screwball comedy vis a vis neorealism, and I loved it. Richard Brody, writing in "The New Yorker," criticized Baker for what he called "synthetic storytelling:" "Baker has a finely tuned story sense—the machine runs efficiently, and the characters are essentially workers enlisted to keep it running. Their emotional lives don’t factor into the movie except to the extent that they serve the cause." I disagree strenuously with Brody's strange charge of class discrimination against Baker. Quite the…