Don’t talk to mirrors. No good will come of it.

During a recent draggy illness, I talked deliriously to the mirror. “How the f— did this happen?” I was startled by the new lines on my face. After a month of antibiotics, cold pills, cough medicine, and herbal tea, I had neglected to apply a magic skin potion.

One good thing came of the virus: I watched old Frank Capra movies. My favorite, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, is sweetly inspiring. Hardened journalist Babe Bennett (Jean Arthur) wants to get the scoop on Mr. Longfellow Deeds (Gary Cooper), an innocent who writes poetry for a greeting card company; she ends up falling in love with him. And I must admit, Mr. Deeds/Gary Cooper is mesmerizing. Gotta love a man who plays the tuba.

The plot is simple and quirky. After Mr. Deeds inherits a fortune, he gives up small-town life to move to his late uncle’s mansion in New York. It is a disillusioning experience: critically-acclaimed writers mock him, reporters and photographers stalk him, and greedy lawyers try to con him. Mr. Deeds doesn’t want to be rich or live in a corrupt city. He stands up for justice and decides to give the money to poor farmers. And that infuriates the lawyers who used to manage, i.e., embezzle money from, his uncle’s estate. The corruption is ineffable: there are tense moments as we move toward the happy ending.

Today there are no Frank Capras. (That’s a guess: I don’t see many movies in theaters.) Today there would be fart jokes in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. Really, the geniuses try to fob off the cheapest jokes on us.

Charm? Sentiment? Sweetness? Not so much. They think we’re too tough for that.

Gary Cooper deservedly won the Academy Award for Best Actor in Mr. Deeds Goes to Town.