Whatever slender charms this character (or its creator and incarnator, Paul Hogan) possessed the first time around have been nudged off the screen by his widening smugness. This is partly an effect of simply trying to keep him the same while time marches on around him. Rustic naiveté, for example, loses some of its attractiveness once it becomes a sign of slow-learning rather than of a lack of instruction. And the romantic relationship has progressed so little beyond Happily Ever After that it hardly merits an update. But the worst of it is that as the hero's difficulties in the Big Apple grow deeper -- the active antagonism of a murderous band of dope smugglers -- his air of insouciance, though in reality it probably remains perfectly steady, seems by contrast to soar the higher. The oxygen gets particularly thin once he lures his opponents back to his native stomping grounds, which he rules as a kind of Sheena of the Outback ("the man who talks to animals," etc.). Except for a few dashes of geographical exotica, the plot and dialogue ("The girl's gotta die, but no one touches Dundee. He's for me") would not meet the standards of invention on a weekly TV cop show. With Linda Kozlowski; directed by John Cornell. (1988) — Duncan Shepherd
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