A Blake Edwards comedy, and a relatively serious one, nearer the vein of That's Life and 10 than that of the Pink Panther series, less a throwback to the "classic" (i.e., silent) era than an alert partaker in the modern world -- a frankly and distantly affluent world, but that's the world Blake Edwards knows. The hero, a womanizer and boozer of clinical proportions, is sometimes almost nasty enough for a Kingsley (or even a Martin) Amis novel. But Edwards has his usual trouble staying on track, staying away from slapstick and shtick (the glow-in-the-dark condoms, the spasmic aftereffects of an Herbal Wrap), just as he has trouble in his dialogues discriminating between the authentically witty and the simply glib, the sincere and the schmaltzy. And nothing here is more disgusting, in light of the moderately disgusting things before it, than the dishonestly rosy ending: just the sort of thing, when it doesn't come true in real life, to cause a "recovering" alcoholic to jump off the wagon. John Ritter, Alyson Reed, Julianne Phillips. (1989) — Duncan Shepherd
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