The lighter side of Martin Ritt: a romantic comedy set in the sort of Western small town where everyone knows everyone else and where the lone movie theater -- the Spur -- is open Thursday through Sunday only. The screenplay by the husband-wife team of Irving Ravetch and Harriet Frank, who worked with Ritt on "Hud", "Hobmre", "Conrack", et al., is constructed out of perilously thin material stretched out to hole-opening lengths; and it is stretched out that way for no conceivable reason other than to allow time for an intimate bond to develop between the characters and the audience. This hardly seems necessary when the characters in question are as unreservedly and unrelentingly lovable as these: a plucky divorcée with an only son, a tomboyish talent for horses, and just a touch of common-sense feminism ("You mean to tell me if there were a fly in these pants instead of a zipper, I'd get the loan!"), and an older widower and natural-born libertarian who owns the local drugstore, makes himself handy around the house, plays a bit of fiddle at the weekend dances, and drives a 1927 Model-A whose window- and bumper-stickers give mute expression to the director's otherwise well-stoppered liberalism: "No Nukes," "Re-forest America," "Stop Strip Mining." For all its flimsiness, there is a lot to be said for a movie that attempts to resurrect as a folk hero, or erect as that for the first time, the corner pharmacist cum soda jerk, in his uniform of baby-blue smock. There is a lot to be said simply for the drugstore set itself, which exists in a kind of time-warp. And there is a lot to be said, too, for any movie designed as a vehicle for the personality of James Garner, who has always deserved better on the big screen. (The little screen is something else again.) It is entirely in keeping with his career thereon that even here he deserves a better, maturer, more deserving co-star than Sally Field. (1985) — Duncan Shepherd
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