Wilder made movies before they passed around the memo about showing, not telling. This is a good thing. He builds a gorgeous cathedral of talk. MacMurray spits sentences so deftly they land like cats. Stanwyck, beneath a frightful blond wig almost as big as her torso, compresses vulnerability, indifference, and quiet psychosis into syllables. The stylistic veneer of the film is plain fun. But beneath this, as in other Wilder films (including "The Apartment," also about insurance), there's a deep cynicism flirting with nihilism. Insurance offers Wilder a perfect vehicle for exposing the predictability of the mass of life, and the futility of our attempts to escape boredom.