A widowed, racist, and all around mucho ungracious landlord (Michael Douglas) begrudgingly falls in love with an equally companionless tenant (Diane Keaton) best known for continually sabotaging her budding career as a chanteuse by working her dead husband’s aneurism into the between-song patter. It begins to curdle early on when 40 pounds of troubling plot contrivance arrives in the form of the 10-year-old granddaughter Douglas never knew existed, dropped on his doorstep by an estranged son who needs Dad to harbor the kid while he does time in the pokey. The seasoned stars – with the exception of an insufferable Frances Sternhagen – try hard, but screenwriter Mark Andrus’ (Georgia Rule) trying patchwork of honeyed cliches and director Rob Reiner’s amaurotic convergence of wasted space conspire to suck the life out of this thing. Michael briefly channels papa Kirk to deliver drunken backstory, and a badly-rugged Reiner taking a fall on a slip-and-slide is best described as a deserved fate. (2014) — Scott Marks
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