Two years after debuting a sparkling chemistry in 1959′s Pillow Talk, Doris Day and Rock Hudson re-teamed for another romantic comedy, Lover Come Back. Again, they were joined by Tony Randall and a slew of amusing bit players for an appealing, candy-coated concoction of wit, sex, and broad humor. Over the years, I’ve read several critical reviews of the Day-Hudson filmography that label Lover the best of the lot. While I disagree with that assessment (to me, nothing beats their initial pairing in Talk), the film definitely has some of the same immense charms.

Lover Come Back features Day and Hudson as Carol Templeton and Jerry Webster, advertising executives at rival firms in New York City. While Carol works long hours perfecting pitches to secure clients, Jerry wines, dines, and schmoozes potential clients, pandering to their egos, wallets, and libidos. When Jerry succeeds in snatching yet another client out from under Carol’s nose, she reports him to the Advertising Council for his unethical and untenable behavior. To head off Carol’s attempt to jettison his career, Jerry convinces a showgirl, Rebel Davis (Edie Adams), to vouch for him, promising her a prominent role as the spokesgirl for a new product, VIP. The only problem? VIP hasn’t exactly been invented yet. And as Carol catches wind of the new, hot “account” and grows determined to win it for herself, Jerry plays the role of Linus, VIP’s “inventor,” determined all the while to seduce her and divert her attention from her campaign.

Sound familiar? It should–the plot of Lover Come Back borrows heavily from its predecessor. Again, we have Hudson role-playing in an attempt to fool Day’s busy, devoted career woman. And Randall, as Peter Ramsey, the typically-absent president of Jerry’s advertising firm, again functions as the wealthy best friend figure, miserable despite his good fortune and envious of Jerry’s from-the-bootstraps rise to success. But does the similarity between the two films ultimately detract from one or the another? Happily, the answer to that question is a resounding “no.” Despite the shared themes and character arcs, Lover is just as enjoyable as Pillow Talk, with moments of sheer comic brilliance that are all its own.

Interestingly, the movie does allow for a small change in the perception of Day’s sexuality, which creates a slightly more daring atmosphere (at least, for 1961). In Pillow Talk, Day’s Jan Morrow is the one being pursued by Hudson’s knowing, highly-sexed Brad, only allowing herself to give in after an aggressive campaign on his part. But in Lover, Day’s Carol becomes more the sexual aggressor, at least initially, and it’s fun to watch. “Linus,” as portrayed by Jerry, is an innocent, unsure of how to interact with women and ignorant of the delicate sexual relationship between the sexes. Yes, it is a carefully calculated ploy on Jerry’s part to elicit sympathy (and, by extension, sympathy love-making), and Carol falls for it hook, line, and sinker, taking it upon herself to “school” the brilliant but hapless inventor on the ways of love. She even allows herself to be manipulated into taking “Linus” to a strip club, much to Jerry’s delight (the two actors’ facial expressions as the off-screen stripper throws bits of her costume at Linus/Jerry are utterly priceless, as indicated in the screenshot above).

As in Pillow Talk, the ensemble of supporting characters are a hilarious addition to the film. As Rebel, the gorgeous Adams is particularly effective, especially in her performance in front of the Ad Council, in which she declares Jerry to be beyond reproach as she leans over the table to give each man on the panel a better look at Jerry’s (faux) “good conduct” medal, nestled benignly in her impressive cleavage. Jack Albertson and Charles Watts play a pair of friends who always manage to run across Jerry as he’s wooing yet another pretty girl–their running commentary on Jerry’s remarkable stamina is laugh-out-loud funny. And Ann B. Davis (The Brady Bunch’s Alice) brings her prototypical snark to a small but ultimately pivotal role as Carol’s secretary, Millie, who arranges a (very) last-minute reconciliation for her boss and Jerry at the end of the film.

Part of the enjoyment of the movie comes from its satirical look at American big business in the early 1960s–particularly the advertising game. It’s interesting to compare this film to the current television show Mad Men, which takes a more serious (and perhaps bleaker) look at the field during roughly the same time period. True, the similarities between the two are surface-level at best. Still, there are hints of Jerry in Mad Men’s Don Draper: both are womanizing cads; both are determined to do what it takes to land an account; neither man is overly concerned by questions of ethics or morality. And there are tendrils of Carol Templeton in Men’s Peggy Olson: both are women in a predominantly male-driven field, trying to succeed despite the obstacles in their respective paths.

Filled with witty one-liners, some simply stunning costumes for Day, and several great slapstick moments (of particular note is the scene in which Jerry and Peter go hunting only to inadvertently attract the amorous attentions of a moose), Lover Come Back is nothing less than an enjoyable romp, courtesy of the dynamic duo of Hudson and Day.

This past weekend marked classic movie star Doris Day’s 87th birthday (at least, according to TCM’s online biography of the star … some sources list various other years as Day’s official date of birth). And what better way to celebrate than to dedicate this week’s posts to a trio of films from the beautiful, charming, and oh-so-funny actress?

To that end, we’re going to take a look at the three movies that gave us one of the cutest cinematic pairings of all time: that of Day and Rock Hudson. These three films–Pillow Talk (1959), Lover Come Back (1961), and Send Me No Flowers (1964)–are genuinely funny romantic comedies, trading on Day’s subtle sexiness and Hudson’s macho appeal in a series of battle-of-the-sexes romps. Add in a series of hilarious supporting turns from Tony Randall, and you have the recipe for pure entertainment … and the basis for pretty much every romantic comedy to follow (I’ll leave you to decide if that is ultimately a good thing or a bad thing, given the current state of romantic comedy…).

While each film has its respective charms, the indisputably best of the lot is the first (which, incidentally, won a very deserved Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay). In Pillow Talk, Day plays Jan Morrow, an interior decorator sharing a telephone party line with songwriter Brad Allen (Hudson). Brad’s constant appropriation of the phone–wherein most of his conversations involve him singing a variation of the same tune to one of his numerous female lovers–irritates Jan to no end, and sight unseen, the pair share a mutual loathing of one another. When Brad’s best friend, the wealthy Jonathan Forbes (Randall), tells Brad about his infatuation with his new designer (Jan), Brad is intrigued and determined to try to snag Jan for himself. The two of them happen to meet at a restaurant one evening, and knowing that Jan hates him, Brad pretends to be a rich rancher from Texas named Rex Stetson, in the process sweeping the unknowing Jan off her feet.

The film is a grown-up mix of sex and charm, and does much to dispel the virginal persona that had plagued Day up until this point in her career. Jan is a modern girl, ready to embrace a sexual relationship with Brad Rex that doesn’t include the exchange of wedding vows … that is, until his deceptions come to light. And the movie has fun playing with the sexually-charged nature of the action, inserting characters and setpieces that reflect the lustier appetites of the film. There’s a fertility goddess, a couch that turns into a bed with the flip of a switch, a randy Harvard man, and the infamous split-screen telephone scenes, including one in which Jan and Brad/Rex talk to one another while in their respective bathtubs.

As their talk turns amorous, each one stretches a leg up onto the wall of the bathroom, their feet “meeting” in the middle. His foot slides down the wall a moment, and hers retreats, as if tickled or startled, then slowly returns and plants itself firmly “against” his as Day purrs, “You’ll find that most people are willing to meet you halfway … if you let them.” And you thought a train pounding through a tunnel wasn’t subtle.

While Hudson, who had built his career on stalwart, manly leading roles, was reportedly nervous about trying his hand at humor on the big screen, there’s no hesitation in the end product. The comedy is brisk and witty, with Day and Hudson snapping off one-liners at one another like seasoned pros, aided ably by the always-reliable Thelma Ritter (whose drunken maid, Alma, almost steals the entire movie) and the eternally-befuddled Randall. And there’s a whole lineup of minor characters who have shining moments of comedic brilliance in the film–my particular favorite is the nightclub singer (Perry Blackwell) who realizes Brad’s game and sings the song “You Lied” in tribute to him … to which he responds with a roguish wink.

The character of Brad is an interesting one to consider because, in essence, he’s a real jerk. He dangles multiple women on the line–literally and figuratively. When one woman coos over the telephone, “I love you,” Brad’s response is a condescending, “I know” (you thought Han Solo originated that particularly heartfelt response, didn’t you?). And his mission to bed Jan becomes increasingly mean-spirited as the film continues. While playing the part of Rex, Brad also inserts himself into the “relationship” between Rex and Jan, calling her to warn her of the dangers of Rex’s “cowboy act.” He tells her Rex is going to try to lure her to his hotel room … and then ”Rex” brings her up to a hastily-rented room to fetch a coat. He tells her Rex is probably a “mama’s boy” … and “Rex” daintily lifts a pinkie when sipping his drink at the cocktail bar that evening. It’s almost cruel, the way he continually screws with her mind.

Yet we forgive Brad, as Jan eventually does, because … well, wouldn’t you forgive him, too? Hudson’s charm and ability to force the audience to empathize with Brad, particularly as he wages his campaign to win Jan back after the “great reveal,” goes a long way toward making his character seem less an unmitigated ass and more a misdirected, soon-to-be-reformed heel.

There are light elements of screwball sprinkled throughout the film, particularly the final scenes in which Brad, angered by Jan’s method of revenge (which involves turning his apartment into a scene worthy of Cirque du Soleil) kicks open the door to Jan’s apartment, yanks her pajama-clad butt out of bed, and carries her through the streets of New York to his apartment. These moments generally don’t overwhelm the film–the action, and the humor, stay heartily down-to-earth.

The only motif in the film that rings a note of ridiculousness is Brad’s series of fleeting interactions with an obstetrician and his nurse, whose office is located down the hall from Jonathan’s. Trying to hide from Jan one day, Brad ducks into the doctor’s office and begins complaining to the nurse about the “strange pains” he’s been having. The disbelieving nurse fetches the doctor while Brad slips out of the room, and the doctor, thinking that Brad might just be a miracle of modern science, berates the nurse for her “limited” thinking. While these two characters do end up providing a so-cute-it-almost-hurts coda to the film, the three scenes in the medical office are little more than pockets of painfully strained farce in a generally light and frothy picture.

Despite that minor quibble, Pillow Talk is a delight, pure and simple, from start to finish, and a must-see movie for fans of romantic comedy. If you want to see how the genre should ideally be done (attention, makers of crappy Jennifer Lopez ”comedies” like Maid in Manhattan), there’s truly no better example than this.