A romantic thriller of such ridiculousness that it could be difficult ever again to take seriously anyone connected with it. That would include Lawrence Kasdan, who wrote the script, albeit seventeen (or was it nineteen?) years previous, which might partially absolve him if he were fifteen years old at the time. And Kevin Costner, whose haircut becomes more explicable (if not better looking on him) when you know that the role was conceived originally for Steve McQueen: the pudgy yet lightweight Costner is as poor a second choice here for McQueen as he was for Eastwood in Revenge. And Whitney Houston, who can be forgiven for wanting to launch an acting career (she photographs well) but not for launching it in the role of an established screen superstar who is currently up for an Academy Award as Best Actress (in addition to being a top-of-the-charts singer of a nominated Best Song: a bit like Cher, but bigger in the music business; a bit like Madonna, but bigger in the film business). The whole thing plays like the bedtime fantasy of an adolescent male whose cornerstone vocabulary word and highest conceivable accolade is "cool." Accordingly, it produces no thrills but numerous laughs. Directed by Mick Jackson. (1992) — Duncan Shepherd
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