It became increasingly difficult to stop thinking of the late Anna Nicole Smith as I sat through a screening of Factory Girl the other day. The movie wasn’t about her, of course. It’s an ostensible biopic about Andy Warhol acolyte Edie Sedgwick, who crash-dived to her death from a narcotics overdose at the age of 28 in 1971 after an abbreviated life of dangerous, dead-end excess.

Film noir is all well and good, but for me the genre that makes Turner Classic Movies indispensable is screwball comedy, those romantic farces of the 1930s and early 1940s about madcap heiresses, divorce and reverse class snobbery. Like noir, it’s a post hoc category created by critics to describe a range of movies, which means that there aren’t very many individual films you can point to as “pure” examples. (The paradigm usually offered is Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night, but I’d point to Howard Hawks’ Bringing Up Baby.)