Mi hijo no se vende

Cecil Kellaway is driving Martha O'Driscoll to the hospital to have her baby. The taxi gets caught in a snowdrift and they take shelter in the home of widowed Nobel Prize laureate (Physics) Richard Carlson. The physician says she can't be moved, so there she rests, much to the anger of two sets of in-laws: her snobby in-laws who want the baby taken from his ex-bubble-dancer mother; and his in-laws, Florence and her daughter, Frances Gifford, whom they have been scheming since the funeral to marry Carlson.

It's a slight comedy, nothing compared to stronger works like BALL OF FIRE, but then, it's all B talent in front of and behind the camera, except for two. As it chugs its way soddenly through its rote plot, Kellaway, who seems to have been every man in his time, is the single shining bright spot -- although if you wanted a malicious harpy for a comedy, you couldn't do much better than Florence Bates. Despite their efforts, it's a programmer, and the couple at the core are two busy reciting their lines in character to be of much more interest than the realization that they're what this movie is supposed to be concerned with.