A drive-thru bank teller's casual liaison with a free-lance tennis instructor and dilettante dope dealer opens the door to a world unknown. And the selection of locales in various parts of Los Angeles is fresh enough that even the avid moviegoer might feel he doesn't know a thing or two. The whole business, at least up to the damsel-in-distress finale, is remarkably underplayed, so much so that the high points seem to be those that go furthest into tranquility and delicacy: cooking a chili burger, assaying a cocaine shipment. But it is also remarkably underdeveloped. Writer-director James Bridges seems loath to face up to the question of what sort of woman would sit around pining after a man whose only assets are physical, waiting literally months for the phone to ring, working up no hard feelings about it. In the circumstances, it seems imprudent of Bridges to poke fun at the bespectacled culture bug as a romantic alternative: the heroine, trapped with him at a sushi bar, can barely keep her eyelids up. Debra Winger. (1984) — Duncan Shepherd
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