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From the Inside Flap
The beloved characters--mortal and immortal--of Topper return in this uproarious romp through the south of France. One of Thorne Smith's best-loved comedies, it proves once again that he is the undisputed master of urbane wit and sophisticated repartee.
Cosmo Topper, the mild-mannered bank manager who was persuaded to take a walk on the wild side by the ghosts of George and Marion Kerby in Topper, finds himself reunited with his dyspeptic wife for an extended vacation on the Riviera. But he doesn't have long to enjoy the peace and quiet before the irrepressible Kerbys materialize once again and start causing fracases, confusing the citizenry, alarming the gendarmes, getting naked, and turning every occasion into revelry or melee. Soon Marion decides that Topper as a ghost would be even more laughs than Topper in the flesh. And all she needs to arrange is one simple little murder.
Born in Annapolis, Maryland, in 1892, educated at Dartmouth, THORNE SMITH was an early cohort of Dorothy Parker's. He achieved literary success in 1926 with the publication of Topper and went on to publish nine novels in the next eight years. He earned a passionate following among both critics and readers before his death, at the age of forty-two, in 1934.
CAROLYN SEE is the author of nine books. Her latest novel is The Handyman. She lives in Pacific Palisades, California.
From the Trade Paperback edition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Cosmo Topper, the mild-mannered bank manager who was persuaded to take a walk on the wild side by the ghosts of George and Marion Kerby in Topper, finds himself reunited with his dyspeptic wife for an extended vacation on the Riviera. But he doesn't have long to enjoy the peace and quiet before the irrepressible Kerbys materialize once again and start causing fracases, confusing the citizenry, alarming the gendarmes, getting naked, and turning every occasion into revelry or melee. Soon Marion decides that Topper as a ghost would be even more laughs than Topper in the flesh. And all she needs to arrange is one simple little murder.
Born in Annapolis, Maryland, in 1892, educated at Dartmouth, THORNE SMITH was an early cohort of Dorothy Parker's. He achieved literary success in 1926 with the publication of Topper and went on to publish nine novels in the next eight years. He earned a passionate following among both critics and readers before his death, at the age of forty-two, in 1934.
CAROLYN SEE is the author of nine books. Her latest novel is The Handyman. She lives in Pacific Palisades, California.
From the Trade Paperback edition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Morning Thoughts on a German Model
There was Topper. And there was the Mediterranean. A magnificent spectacle, that--Topper and the Mediterranean. Kindred spirits well met, contemplating each other across an alluring girdle of sand.
Not a large man, Topper--Cosmo Topper. Nor yet a small man. Certainly not a small. A comfortable man, rather. Slightly plump, if anything, and clad in a pair of blue silk pajamas. And there was the Mediterranean just as it had been there for a considerable length of time--much longer than Mr. Topper, for one thing. A vast expanse of cool ocean as blue and virginal seeming as the garments adorning the figure then inspecting it from the balcon of a discouragingly pale stucco villa set in a garden fairly bristling with grass of a repellent toughness--grass so hostilely tough that only a rhinoceros could sit on it with any showing of dignity and aplomb. Unfortunately, as rhinoceroses are rarely if ever encountered in these drab days sitting on Riviera grass in Riviera gardens, this observation must of necessity remain merely one of those vast mental pictures upon which to dwell during the interminable reaches of a family reunion.
On this early morning, one which appeared about as willing to give as to receive of the good things of life, Mr. Topper had the Mediterranean very much to himself. In fact, he was quite alone with all that great quantity of water.
There was the man. And there was the ocean. Unique and distinct. One might even choose between them, if suddenly faced with such a disagreeable necessity. However, so splendidly did they go together, so well matched or mated were the two, that most persons of discrimination would have hesitated to separate them. They would have preferred to sidestep the issue and to retain both Topper and the Mediterranean intact. But, of course, there are some who might have wanted the ocean more than the man, or vice versa. Who can say?
We are fortunate in being able to have them both at their best, Topper on his balcon, and the Mediterranean in its bed.
Across the Mediterranean Mr. Topper cast an early morning look, and the Mediterranean graciously offered its full-bosomed amplitude to his inspection. And although it has been previously observed that both were of a virginal blueness, it should not be forgotten that either one of them was capable of pulling some powerfully rough stuff when the opportunity offered.
Topper, it is to be learned with some relief, was virginal more through circumstance than choice. This does not imply that his was a low and lecherous nature. Nor does it necessarily follow that he was epicurean in such matters. But he did like things nice that way. Most men do, when and if possible.
Topper had been a banker by profession. He still was a husband--an original error of judgment unrectified by time. Habit is a dreadful thing. Once he had commuted without realizing the error of his ways. Most men commute through necessity. Topper had done so ritualistically. In Glendale, U. S. A., the Toppers had been socially solid. All that had changed, but not through Mrs. Topper.
The fact is that rather late in the day Cosmo Topper had been subjected to the ultra violent rays of a series of amorous and disreputable adventures as incredible as they had been entertaining. These adventures had left his pulse still beating in perfect harmony with the more enjoyable if less laudable preoccupations of life. They had not so much changed his character as ventilated it, given it a chance to breathe good, honest vulgar air vitalized by the fumes of grog. As a result, he had succeeded in washing his hands of work, but figuratively women still clung to them. There were times when those hands of Topper's fairly itched after women, which is the natural state of all healthy and enterprising masculine hands.
Even now, in the innocent face of this clean Riviera morning, the man was actually speculating as to the exact degree of nudity the German model would achieve on the beach a few hours hence. Yesterday, to his almost visible agitation, this lady of wolfish lines had reached what he had every reason to believe to be the absolute limit of anatomical candour. In spite of this awe-inspiring display, something told Topper that this German model, in her relentless quest of a coat of tan, still held a few more cubic inches in reserve which she would willingly sacrifice to the sun. Until she did this there was no peace of mind for any inquiring spirit on the beach. And when this greatly to be desired end had been attained, Topper both hoped and proposed to be stationed critically in the front ranks of a vast, admiring, and cosmopolitan multitude. He owed himself that much. Not that he lusted after the woman, but too long and too patiently had he attended in clinical expectancy to be, at the end, deprived of this point of vantage.
Once she had definitely and conclusively arrived at the climax of her revelations, Topper felt that he would be quite willing to call it a game. He had no desire to pursue his investigations further. All suspense would be at an end. The German model could go her way, while he would go his as if the incident had never occurred. Her crisply burned body would remain in his memory merely as a remarkable phenomenon, something to wonder about, like a landslide, subway rush, or Democratic Convention.
However, until that time Mr. Topper's interests were very much involved. True enough, so gradually had the German model progressed on her way to nudity that much of the shock had evaporated before fresh territory was opened up for inspection, but by the same token, the very deliberateness of the method employed lent to the business an atmosphere of terrific suspense. What the morrow would bring forth, or, rather, off, was the anxious speculation in scores of masculine minds. Women also wondered. Topper suspected several depraved frequenters of the Casino actually of betting on the results of the model's daily progress. For example, the fifth rib against the diaphragm, heavy odds against a complete torso.
Being bored abroad is one of America's favorite customs. And not without reason.
Mr. Topper held stoutly to the belief that within the short space of several weeks this German model had done more to establish friendly relations--to create a sort of entente intime, in fact--between her country and the Allied Powers than had been achieved by all the diplomatic gestures and disarmament conferences that had supplied the public with dull reading since the Armistice.
"And not a bad idea," he mused, yawning. "In fact, a splendid idea. Instead of holding a series of silly disarmament conferences at which everyone gets all hot and bothered and cables home to hurry up with more guns--instead of this, why not institute a set of disrobing conferences? Why not make a clean breast of it internationally? Let us strip ourselves of our all and face each other man to woman instead of man to man. No more beating about the bush or dangerous secret diplomacy. No more old men telling lies to other old men. At innumerable private conferences the idea has worked out not only successfully but entertainingly. Why not try it out on a large international scale?"
He considered his Mediterranean now as if in a trance. Topper was seeing in his mind's eye the American ambassador to England clad only in a pipe, looking at the German delegate trying to face the world in glasses. He saw a famous old French bargain hunter smilingly surveying the scene protected only by a blue béret--très gentil. And a gentleman from Italy clad only in a neat but shrunken black shirt--what a sight! Mahatma Ghandi taking everything quite naturally, together with a few grains of rice. Then there would be the ladies, supplied probably by an international theatrical committee: Miss America, Mlle France, Señorita Madrid, et al. Altogether a jolly party. A conference that would accomplish some results, at least, no matter what those results might be. Agreeable events would be sure to occur.
The Mediterranean invites the idle mind to do some very curious thinking, and Mr. Topper, it seems, had accepted the invitation. And all the while these and other equally unbecoming thoughts were corroding the mind of this erstwhile banker, within the pale villa, his wife was sleeping most unpicturesquely yet most thoroughly. In spite of the many sterling qualities of this really admirable lady, one could forgive without too great a struggle her husband for preferring to think of the German model.
There was so much of her worth thinking about and so many choice bits of that so much. And strange to relate, Topper had not the faintest conception of what she looked like--no idea at all of her face. Men are like that. Careless. Just grown-up boys with a few extra tricks tacked on.
He well remembered the day when she had first made her appearance on the beach. Like many successful men and women before her, she had made rather modest and cautious beginnings. Only a scant couple of yards of her were exposed to the avid caress of the sun that day. From that first casual view of her one never would have suspected that there was so very much more of the German model still left unseen. Yet as time went on and vaster expanses became exposed, one came to believe that perhaps this German model would never cease, but like the brook continue on forever. Now, most fortunately for everyone concerned, there was little left of the lady that remained unexposed. With characteristic Teutonic system and thoroughness she had succeeded in revolutionizing the color of her skin and at the same time hanging up a record for plain and fancy nudity on a beach where such a record was exceedingly hard to make.
She was a good influence, Mr. Topper decided, as he stood on his balcon, getting himself together for the day. She was the living symbol of one of the few interests that nations held in common. She drew men together, took their mind off grimmer if higher things. Furthermore, she didn't give a dam... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
There was Topper. And there was the Mediterranean. A magnificent spectacle, that--Topper and the Mediterranean. Kindred spirits well met, contemplating each other across an alluring girdle of sand.
Not a large man, Topper--Cosmo Topper. Nor yet a small man. Certainly not a small. A comfortable man, rather. Slightly plump, if anything, and clad in a pair of blue silk pajamas. And there was the Mediterranean just as it had been there for a considerable length of time--much longer than Mr. Topper, for one thing. A vast expanse of cool ocean as blue and virginal seeming as the garments adorning the figure then inspecting it from the balcon of a discouragingly pale stucco villa set in a garden fairly bristling with grass of a repellent toughness--grass so hostilely tough that only a rhinoceros could sit on it with any showing of dignity and aplomb. Unfortunately, as rhinoceroses are rarely if ever encountered in these drab days sitting on Riviera grass in Riviera gardens, this observation must of necessity remain merely one of those vast mental pictures upon which to dwell during the interminable reaches of a family reunion.
On this early morning, one which appeared about as willing to give as to receive of the good things of life, Mr. Topper had the Mediterranean very much to himself. In fact, he was quite alone with all that great quantity of water.
There was the man. And there was the ocean. Unique and distinct. One might even choose between them, if suddenly faced with such a disagreeable necessity. However, so splendidly did they go together, so well matched or mated were the two, that most persons of discrimination would have hesitated to separate them. They would have preferred to sidestep the issue and to retain both Topper and the Mediterranean intact. But, of course, there are some who might have wanted the ocean more than the man, or vice versa. Who can say?
We are fortunate in being able to have them both at their best, Topper on his balcon, and the Mediterranean in its bed.
Across the Mediterranean Mr. Topper cast an early morning look, and the Mediterranean graciously offered its full-bosomed amplitude to his inspection. And although it has been previously observed that both were of a virginal blueness, it should not be forgotten that either one of them was capable of pulling some powerfully rough stuff when the opportunity offered.
Topper, it is to be learned with some relief, was virginal more through circumstance than choice. This does not imply that his was a low and lecherous nature. Nor does it necessarily follow that he was epicurean in such matters. But he did like things nice that way. Most men do, when and if possible.
Topper had been a banker by profession. He still was a husband--an original error of judgment unrectified by time. Habit is a dreadful thing. Once he had commuted without realizing the error of his ways. Most men commute through necessity. Topper had done so ritualistically. In Glendale, U. S. A., the Toppers had been socially solid. All that had changed, but not through Mrs. Topper.
The fact is that rather late in the day Cosmo Topper had been subjected to the ultra violent rays of a series of amorous and disreputable adventures as incredible as they had been entertaining. These adventures had left his pulse still beating in perfect harmony with the more enjoyable if less laudable preoccupations of life. They had not so much changed his character as ventilated it, given it a chance to breathe good, honest vulgar air vitalized by the fumes of grog. As a result, he had succeeded in washing his hands of work, but figuratively women still clung to them. There were times when those hands of Topper's fairly itched after women, which is the natural state of all healthy and enterprising masculine hands.
Even now, in the innocent face of this clean Riviera morning, the man was actually speculating as to the exact degree of nudity the German model would achieve on the beach a few hours hence. Yesterday, to his almost visible agitation, this lady of wolfish lines had reached what he had every reason to believe to be the absolute limit of anatomical candour. In spite of this awe-inspiring display, something told Topper that this German model, in her relentless quest of a coat of tan, still held a few more cubic inches in reserve which she would willingly sacrifice to the sun. Until she did this there was no peace of mind for any inquiring spirit on the beach. And when this greatly to be desired end had been attained, Topper both hoped and proposed to be stationed critically in the front ranks of a vast, admiring, and cosmopolitan multitude. He owed himself that much. Not that he lusted after the woman, but too long and too patiently had he attended in clinical expectancy to be, at the end, deprived of this point of vantage.
Once she had definitely and conclusively arrived at the climax of her revelations, Topper felt that he would be quite willing to call it a game. He had no desire to pursue his investigations further. All suspense would be at an end. The German model could go her way, while he would go his as if the incident had never occurred. Her crisply burned body would remain in his memory merely as a remarkable phenomenon, something to wonder about, like a landslide, subway rush, or Democratic Convention.
However, until that time Mr. Topper's interests were very much involved. True enough, so gradually had the German model progressed on her way to nudity that much of the shock had evaporated before fresh territory was opened up for inspection, but by the same token, the very deliberateness of the method employed lent to the business an atmosphere of terrific suspense. What the morrow would bring forth, or, rather, off, was the anxious speculation in scores of masculine minds. Women also wondered. Topper suspected several depraved frequenters of the Casino actually of betting on the results of the model's daily progress. For example, the fifth rib against the diaphragm, heavy odds against a complete torso.
Being bored abroad is one of America's favorite customs. And not without reason.
Mr. Topper held stoutly to the belief that within the short space of several weeks this German model had done more to establish friendly relations--to create a sort of entente intime, in fact--between her country and the Allied Powers than had been achieved by all the diplomatic gestures and disarmament conferences that had supplied the public with dull reading since the Armistice.
"And not a bad idea," he mused, yawning. "In fact, a splendid idea. Instead of holding a series of silly disarmament conferences at which everyone gets all hot and bothered and cables home to hurry up with more guns--instead of this, why not institute a set of disrobing conferences? Why not make a clean breast of it internationally? Let us strip ourselves of our all and face each other man to woman instead of man to man. No more beating about the bush or dangerous secret diplomacy. No more old men telling lies to other old men. At innumerable private conferences the idea has worked out not only successfully but entertainingly. Why not try it out on a large international scale?"
He considered his Mediterranean now as if in a trance. Topper was seeing in his mind's eye the American ambassador to England clad only in a pipe, looking at the German delegate trying to face the world in glasses. He saw a famous old French bargain hunter smilingly surveying the scene protected only by a blue béret--très gentil. And a gentleman from Italy clad only in a neat but shrunken black shirt--what a sight! Mahatma Ghandi taking everything quite naturally, together with a few grains of rice. Then there would be the ladies, supplied probably by an international theatrical committee: Miss America, Mlle France, Señorita Madrid, et al. Altogether a jolly party. A conference that would accomplish some results, at least, no matter what those results might be. Agreeable events would be sure to occur.
The Mediterranean invites the idle mind to do some very curious thinking, and Mr. Topper, it seems, had accepted the invitation. And all the while these and other equally unbecoming thoughts were corroding the mind of this erstwhile banker, within the pale villa, his wife was sleeping most unpicturesquely yet most thoroughly. In spite of the many sterling qualities of this really admirable lady, one could forgive without too great a struggle her husband for preferring to think of the German model.
There was so much of her worth thinking about and so many choice bits of that so much. And strange to relate, Topper had not the faintest conception of what she looked like--no idea at all of her face. Men are like that. Careless. Just grown-up boys with a few extra tricks tacked on.
He well remembered the day when she had first made her appearance on the beach. Like many successful men and women before her, she had made rather modest and cautious beginnings. Only a scant couple of yards of her were exposed to the avid caress of the sun that day. From that first casual view of her one never would have suspected that there was so very much more of the German model still left unseen. Yet as time went on and vaster expanses became exposed, one came to believe that perhaps this German model would never cease, but like the brook continue on forever. Now, most fortunately for everyone concerned, there was little left of the lady that remained unexposed. With characteristic Teutonic system and thoroughness she had succeeded in revolutionizing the color of her skin and at the same time hanging up a record for plain and fancy nudity on a beach where such a record was exceedingly hard to make.
She was a good influence, Mr. Topper decided, as he stood on his balcon, getting himself together for the day. She was the living symbol of one of the few interests that nations held in common. She drew men together, took their mind off grimmer if higher things. Furthermore, she didn't give a dam... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
21 of 22 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Comedy at its best,
By Linda Jones (Rockledge, Florida, USA) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Topper Takes a Trip [VHS] (VHS Tape)
Topper movies have been some of the best clean cut comedy ever. These are the types of movies you can watch over and over and still continue to laugh. More comedy movies of today should be made this way. I know there are "Topper" lovers as myself and would enjoy being able to see them on the American Movie Classic channel or just on regular tv from time to time. The only move I own is Topper Returns and would love to have these others. I grew up watching these movies and will continue to watch them. Please bring them back.
12 of 14 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
DELIGHTFUL SEQUEL.,
This review is from: Topper Takes a Trip [VHS] (VHS Tape)
This follow-up to the highly successful TOPPER - which was made earlier that year (1939) - picks up where the last film left off. After reestablishing the auto accident which killed the drunken Bennett and Grant in the first film and turned them into ghosts, we are treated (sans Cary Grant) to a hilarious 85 minutes. Clara Topper (Burke) spots Marion Kirby (Bennett) in her husband Cosmo's room. Clara goes to Paris - with Cosmo following - in order to get a divorce because she believes her hen-pecked husband has been seeing another "woman". Unable to explain to Clara that Marion is only a ghost, Cosmo tries to fast-talk Burke into a reconciliaton. Several floating martinis later, Bennett manages to reconcile the couple, and is now able to join her husband in their celestial home. The trick photography by Roy Seawright is astonishing for its day. Cushions which deflate when invisible figures sit on them, cigarettes being smoked in mid-air and pencils writing notes by themselves are all executed with great skill. The sight of the Kirby's dog Skippy - also a ghost - is hilarious when only his tail fails to become invisible or when he bites the ankles of totally flabbergasted men! A third film, TOPPER RETURNS is a surprisingly pleasant diversion from 1941: it stars Joan Blondell as Marion Kirby.
9 of 10 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
greatfamilyfilm,
By atwig4@aol.com (jackson michigan) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Topper Takes a Trip [VHS] (VHS Tape)
it would do all of us good if more movies were being made today that can make us laugh just by it being funny not by it being an effort to hurt or humiliate a person place or thing. maybe someone someday will look again at these old classics and see how refreshing it was to be entertained not by seeing people or places blowing up or being destroyd but just being allowed to sit back relax and enjoy the fact that what your watching can entertain you your grandmother and your kids all at the same time.
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First Sentence:
There was Topper. Read the first page Key Phrases - Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs): (learn more)
gloomy gentleman, upper rump, odd foot, beach shoes, little carriage Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Marion Kerby, George Kerby, Monsieur Louis, Monsieur Grandon, Monsieur Sylvestre, Mary Topper, Harold Gay, Millie Coit, Commander Becket, Monsieur Dalmas, Colonel Scott, Hunt Davis, Keith Sutton-Trevor, Cosmo Topper, English Bar, Blake Willard, Monsieur Topper, Blynn Nelson, Clara Hart, South American, Millie Colt, Monte Carlo, Tborne Smitb, Topper Taker, Clyde Jones New!
Concordance | Text Stats Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | Table of Contents | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
There was Topper. Read the first page Key Phrases - Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs): (learn more)
gloomy gentleman, upper rump, odd foot, beach shoes, little carriage Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Marion Kerby, George Kerby, Monsieur Louis, Monsieur Grandon, Monsieur Sylvestre, Mary Topper, Harold Gay, Millie Coit, Commander Becket, Monsieur Dalmas, Colonel Scott, Hunt Davis, Keith Sutton-Trevor, Cosmo Topper, English Bar, Blake Willard, Monsieur Topper, Blynn Nelson, Clara Hart, South American, Millie Colt, Monte Carlo, Tborne Smitb, Topper Taker, Clyde Jones New!
Concordance | Text Stats Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | Table of Contents | First Pages | Back Cover | Surprise Me!
Citations (learn more)
This book cites 18
books:
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9
books
cite this book:
See all 9 books citing this book
- The Night Life of the Gods (Modern Library Paperbacks) by Thorne Smith in Front Matter (1), and Front Matter (2)
- Tender Is the Night (Essential Penguin 2) by F Scott Fitzgerald in Front Matter
- The Lost Weekend (New York Classics) by Charles Jackson in Front Matter
- The Stray Lamb by Thorne Smith in Front Matter
- Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald in Front Matter
See all 18 books this book cites
- The Night Life of the Gods (Modern Library Paperbacks) by Thorne Smith in Front Matter (1), Front Matter (2), and Front Matter (3)
- Topper (Modern Library) by Thorne Smith in Front Matter (1), and Front Matter (2)
- Law's Moving Image (Glasshouse S.) by Leslie Moran on page 8
- Firebrands: The Heroines of Science Fiction and Fantasy by Sargent on page 46
- Saints and Avengers: British Adventure Series of the 1960s by James Chapman on page 200
See all 9 books citing this book
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