



Pre-Code Hollywood is a strange and wonderful country, and few citizens were stranger and more wonderful than Mae West. This 1933 romp isn’t a film so much as an extended, glittering monument to its own star — and West built plenty of it herself, writing the screenplay and several of the compliments people keep paying her, which she accepts with the gleeful self-assurance of someone who genuinely cannot see the problem.
The delivery is everything. Cary Grant is pretty to look at and game for whatever’s coming, but this is a one-woman show drenched in innuendo so thick you could chew it — a lion tamer who flirts her way through the circus, hustles men for jewels, collects admirers like costume jewellery, and then defends herself in court with a wit so sharp it feels almost unfair.
I’m No Angel is pure confidence as cinema: anarchic, self-invented, and absolutely delighted with itself.
Then the Hays Code arrived and put a censor’s boot on the fun. Belle of the Nineties was Mae West’s first film under its strict enforcement, and the difference from I’m No Angel is the difference between a woman in full flight and one navigating an obstacle course in heels.
The structure is tidier, Leo McCarey’s direction competent, and Duke Ellington’s orchestra provides genuine compensation. But West without full throttle loses something essential. The innuendo still flickers, the attitude remains, yet it’s been muffled at source. McCarey, who would go on to define screwball with The Awful Truth, seems oddly unsure how to work around the restrictions.
Belle of the Nineties is West at reduced wattage — still magnetic, but you can feel the dimmer switch.