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Cary Confer a cuckold? What right-assessment screen wife would dare step out on the most dashing mortals in the history of talking pictures? But Deborah Kerr is no lazybones herself, and if it’s in the interest of moving picture rag, I surmise we can allow it just this once.

Grant stars as Victor Rhyall, an English earl who, unable to keep up with the astonishing costs of maintaining the family manor, has opened it up to ramble groups. He and his wife, Lady Hilary (Kerr), accept thus become essentially monkeys at the pandemonium for hordes of tourists. Despite the clear demarcation between the clientele and private zones on the house tours, one out of the ordinary American, Charles Delacro, decides to take a peek where he shouldn’t, and finds Hilary. He’s played by Robert Mitchum, and if that isn’t adequately reason to terminate decrease him stay, Hilary at once learns that he’s an American oil baron, a millionaire. Mitchum is charming, in a role that clout not at first seem favourably suited to him. (In fact, it’s the person of part that Grant could probably have phoned in.) Hilary is soon headmistress once more heels on Charles, and she comes up with a pitiable excuse to spend a week in London, with the productive of American, away from the boss around of the manor. (Lord and Lady Rhyall receive two children, who are conveniently scurried away in the first prospect socialize of the movie, and then just as happily reappear in the last.)

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Hilary insists that she’s in town getting her hair done and spending organize with her nicest squeeze, the daffy Hattie (Jean Simmons), but Victor knows what’s what, that his wife is smitten, and not with him. Hattie comes to the state to console Victor, who comes up with an inspired idea: why not invite his wife’s boyfriend out for the weekend? And he can conveniently offer the missus a ride out cold from burgh, to boot.

It’s a terrific setup payment a comedy, and The Grass Is Greener does a correct job of exploiting the waggish possibilities, but the biggest knock against the big is that it takes more than an hour, superior than half the running beforehand, to get through the in-house triangle up and going. The first half isn’t laborious, methodically, but it can be verbose&#8212for instance, here’s a commonplace sentence, spoken by Victor to Hattie about his own marital dilemma: “The viva voce term, like the lost opportunity, doesn’t clock on break. If a situation in the mood for this is admitted outside stentorian, it means it’s been accepted. If it’s accepted, it’s got to be discussed. And each time you converse about it you get more distant aside from, until in the die out, you’re so far away from each other that you have to bellow, and the situation becomes hopeless.” Everybody here is hyperarticulate in a similar aspect etiquette, and while much of the talk is very large indeed, you may spend yourself wishing that the characters had less to say, and more to do.

But they do say things very well. Grant is especially fine&#8212he serenades his wife with a energetic, insolent version of Yankee Doodle, and when trying to get Mitchum to the phone at his hotel, tells the administrator, “This is Rock Hudson calling.” There are also some inspired bits of physical comedy, especially rhyme split-screen sequence with Grant and Simmons in the mother country unknowingly aping the very moves of Mitchum and Kerr at the Savoy in London. Simmons seems to be having fun chewing it up especially; her to some extent isn’t really pivotal to the drama, but it’s fun to see her sign snub discharge, given that she’s probably better known for roles cognate with Ophelia in Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet, or the straightlaced Salvation Army peace officer Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls. Another of the pleasures of this movie is seeing characters of a certain age, whose romantic lives have all but disappeared from the partition in recent decades.

It’s also worth remarking upon the astonishing sum of alcohol that the characters so merrily consume: gin and bitters before dinner, then wine, then an after-dinner brandy, then champagne as a nightcap. How they can refer to at all, job out disappoint abandoned selected swell, is a testament to the power of our suspension of disbelief, if not to the general state of the British liver. Also billed prominently is a attribution line reading: “Music and Lyrics by Noel Dastard,” which, combined with the fact that the director, Stanley Donen, is responsible on account of such pictures as Singin’ In the Volley and The Pajama Prepared, may round you to the erroneous assumption that this may be some sort of euphonious. Coward’s solitary, small contribution is a brief ditty about English power houses that runs over the opening and closing credits.