A merchant ship carrying street smart chorus girl Bonnie Lee (Jean Arthur) stops in Barranca, “port of call for the South American banana boats.” Bonnie moves through the nocturnal bustle of the port and meets two American flyboys, who accompany her to the saloon which offices their airborne mail carrier service, known for flying in bad weather with subpar planes through the snow capped Andes passes.

One of the flyboys is sent on a run by his boss, pilot Geoff Carter (Cary Grant, cast somewhat against type), whose motto of “I don’t believe in laying in a supply of anything” is akin to the world view Bogey would display in Casablanca. Of course, Bonnie, who plays a mean jazz piano and has no problem being one of the guys, is immediately smitten with him.

The flyboy is unable to land when heavy fog rolls in, but rather than circle and miss buying Bonnie a steak dinner, he tries to land, and crashes. Geoff tells the dame it was her fault. Despite this and the acknowledgment that his only commitment is to the skies, Bonnie decides to stick around Barranca for another week.

The situation is complicated by the arrival of Bat Kilgallen (Richard Barthelmess), a skilled pilot who bailed out of a plane and left his mechanic – brother of Geoff’s right hand man Kid Dabb (Thomas Mitchell) – to die. Kilgallen’s wife Judy – played by Rita Hayworth – is also here and turns out to be Geoff’s old flame.

Directed by Howard Hawks, from a script by Jules Furthman and based on a story from Hawks, Only Angels Have Wings is not the best action film Hawks would direct in the ’30s, and definitely isn’t Casablanca, but what movie is? I had a lot of fun with it, despite its obvious flaws.

The main problem here is Cary Grant, who makes his entrance wearing a wide-brimmed Panama hat so ridiculous that I kept waiting for Curious George to appear. As a movie star, he’s hard to accept in any role that doesn’t include either a tux or a tennis racket. As a daredevil trying to eke out a living in the jungle, I found him hard to believe.

Jean Arthur excels playing the blonde whom the term “born yesterday” could never apply. But her best scenes are with her co-star from Mr. Smith Goes To Washington, Thomas Mitchell. Her whipsmart city dame and Grant’s stretch as a Jungle Jim seem to occupy two different movies.

Despite the fact that the script is replete with the type of business lampooned in Airplane!, Hawks does a fantastic job creating atmosphere. Though shot on the Columbia lot, the movie is drenched in humidity. As with many of Hawks’ films, the work environment is one where egos are checked at the door and men assemble for the completion of a common goal. Then they unwind with scotch and some Colombian flamenco music. Great stuff.

I was also impressed with the second unit footage. The scene where Kilgallen methodically circles a tiny landing pad perched in the Andes, then forces the plane down in a quick landing, is sweet. The crashes involve models, but their cheesiness become part of the film’s charm. Like everything else here, as long as you don’t take it seriously, it’s first-class Golden Age of Hollywood.