Reviews

This turgid, sordid melodrama - which I'm sure was really salacious in its day! - is a campy laff-fest, thanks to dialogue that in no way bears any resemblance to actual conversations anyone has ever had in real life. With this all-star cast, you'd be forgiven for thinking you've stumbled on a hidden gem; unfortunately, there are few bright moments to be found among the stars on display; only Dyan Cannon, who may be top-billed but is really little more than a cameo, albeit one that drives the entire movie, rips into her too-small part with gusto, uttering the deathless opening line, "God, I'm so horny!" As her husband, John Colicos - perhaps best known as the major villain in the "Battlestar Galactica" film and 1978 series - is his usual camp self, delivering his lines as if he's about to twirl his moustache; so arch is his persona and acting style that, well, it's nearly impossible to believe that he is: 1) married to Dyan Cannon, 2) so upset with being cheated on that he is driven to murder, and 3) heterosexual, though gayness DOES rear its head much later on in the film, and this time it's (gasp!) A WOMAN, and that woman is Rachel Roberts, whose character is icy-frigid and unhappily married to Gene Hackman, who later beats her with a rolled-up newspaper upon hearing of her lesbian affair (though, in keeping with the sordid quality of everything on screen, she insists she was pretty much coerced into doing so AND, following that newspaper beating, rediscovers her heterosexuality and desire for her husband. Just like real life. Janice Rule is also unhappily married, this time to Richard Crenna, who skips making sexy times with his missus so that he can carry on an affair with Diana Sands, who is not only black but also has a very sick son, for that added bit of pathos. Rule, an actress I've never cared for much, is a vacuum here, adding little to the proceedings, despite shooting up, getting drunk, and rolling around on the bedroom floor in an awkward and rather hilarious attempt to seduce her hubby. Cara Williams is the drunk who is also The Voice of Reason among these Ladies Who Lunch, and she is divorced from Carroll O'Connor; these two provide just about the only sweetness you're going to find in this misbegotten flick. There's also George Gaynes, who spends the majority of the film in a coma, and the actress who plays his wife is stiff as can be, unable to carry across the occasional zinger given her character. And then there's the resident Lothario, who beds as many women as possible at this hospital, the least of whom is surely a female student who makes audio recordings of all of her sexual conquests; the part, and the actress, come across as a weak, desperate take-off on Goldie Hawn, minus all the allure and talent. The gentleman who plays her latest toy is among the very worst actors to ever be in a major film; his attempts at sounding 'hip' - saying 'baby' to punctuate nearly every misogynistic line - are feeble at best. This disaster wants it every which way it can: soapy melodrama...searing comment on the wealthy...an attack on modern marriages, while simultaneously celebrating them...flickerings of nudity that fail to be even remotely titillating...and it fails at everything. While few in the cast are an out-and-out embarrassment, as mentioned only Dyan Cannon is memorable and escapes with the best lines. This was based on what I can only assume is an equally tawdry book NOT written by either Susann OR Robbins, though each moment of this movie practically SCREAMS their names. I only wish it were much more fun than it turns out to be.

Kidnapped children seemed to be all the rage in the late-90's, thanks to the wildly popular film, "Ransom", which means countless TV shows tried to cash in, including this series. Mark Sloan receives a wrong call from a kidnapper and tries to intervene, an action that has dire consequences for the family of the child in danger. What could have, and should have, been a compelling episode is, instead, a dull affair, with less-than-crackling results due to a poor script and what are truly, DEEPLY rotten performances from the guest stars (the folks portraying the family and friends of the missing child are especially laughable, with each line reading sounding as if this is a community-theatre production; the kidnapper should instill fear and dread to the audience but is as scary as a telemarketer; even Eva La Rue, so genuinely warm on CSI: Miami, is stiff and miscast - her attempts to sound tough are hollow, and the suggested cutting repartee with regular cast member Barry Van Dyke rings positively phony). Even with all the mess on screen, one should actually care what happens to this missing child but, quite frankly, I couldn't have given less of a damn than I thought possible.

This, Timothy Dalton's debut as Bond, received a very mixed response upon release, both from critics and the public; while many have continued to assure audiences that this is indeed an underappreciated gem, that Dalton is a throwback to the early Bond films (read: less jokey), that his more serious take on this iconic character is better in keeping with Ian Fleming's vision, and contemporary views have grown favorably towards this film over 35 years, but the sad truth is that the bad press is fully deserved, and here's why: first and foremost, Dalton himself; his portrayal is woefully lacking in ANY humor, making him come across rather...stiff, mechanical, and often downright grouchy, as if he really doesn't want to be in any given scene. He certainly LOOKS the part, and I appreciate that both he, and the filmmakers, were making a concerted effort to leave behind the increasingly outrageous tones of the Roger Moore movies, but they do a 180 and both Dalton, and the film, feel more like a school lesson than a treat. When it was originally released, much was made of the fact that THIS Bond was reflecting the Age of AIDS and, therefore, Bond would be romancing far less women than normal, and while that may or may not be admirable, depending on your viewpoint, his main love interest in this one is the spectacularly drab, instantly forgettable Maryam D'Abo, who is as stiff and uninviting as Dalton, and together they make not so much music as they do the sound of snoring. As the baddie, Jeroen Krabbe is okay: nothing special, not particularly scary or menacing, but serviceable in that late-80's generic-European-villain way. The set pieces are also lackluster, and one must wonder if this was because they truly WERE trying SO VERY HARD to distance themselves from the downright CAMP quality of the later Moore films or because, quite simply, they'd run out of good ideas. Whatever the case may be, this (and the second and final Dalton outing, "License To Kill") were clearly showing a blockbuster series suffering awkward growing pains. The ONLY action scene that shows any discernible humor and lightness is the one most often shown when this movie is brought up (and was, I believe, featured heavily in the commercials): the slide down a snowy hill with Bond and his generic beauty riding atop a cello. Few other scenes are worth remembering in this spiritless dirge. To be honest, one watches this simply to 'complete the set'. In other words, as you would any other chore. And that word is perhaps what describes this Bond best: it's a chore.

The moment the opening credits begin, featuring clumsy choreography and awkward editing set to the strains of a song that is not remotely danceable, there's something immediately 'off' about the tone, and nothing about the next 90 minutes is going to get much better. From the first moments of this misbegotten sequel, the viewer is struck by the fact that for all his successes in front of the camera, Sylvester Stallone is absolutely the worst choice to direct a dance musical: he treats this like it's a music video, and has zero feel for the visual flow of dance, and while he may have won an Oscar for 'Rocky', no such characterization exists in this film; instead, we're left with stock characters from any number of films: the faithful, saintly girlfriend, the icy-cold bitch who at no time really displays any talents more impressive than anyone else on screen (shades of 'Showgirls'!), the finale that is supposed to be spectacular...And at its center lies John Travolta, already into his 1980s slump, and who here exhibits little of the rough charm that helped make he, and his character Tony Manero, a sensation in 'Saturday Night Fever'; instead, there's just boundless 'attitude' and glaring angrily in an effort to display 'determination'. The script, of course, calls for Tony Manero to fall helplessly for the queen of this latest Broadway show he's joined, the aforementioned cold bitch, whom you KNOW is chilly because she's British (soap opera actress Finola Hughes doing her low-rent take on Joan Collins), even though nothing about her is remotely hypnotizing, and, of course, his relationship with his faithful girlfriend (a likeable Cynthia Rhodes, far better than the film deserves) suffers, though at bi time does his character show Amy warmth or love towards her. And then there's the music: though the Bee Gees are touted as having been featured on six songs throughout the film, their music here - with the exception of a reprise of the title track - is their most inconsequential, and none of it - like all the other music contained in this misfire - is music anybody can seriously dance to, and that's because gone is the disco in favor of early-80's rock with a driving tempo. Of course, the finest dance tunes couldn't bring life to choreography that belongs on 'Solid Gold' or a cruise ship (the finale is especially guilty of this, and I now truly believe it inspired the main show in 'Showgirls', pure camp). Any of the gritty realism the original had has been jettisoned and replaced by the glossy sheen of a workout video. (That director Stallone makes a cameo in full fur coat and huge sunglasses says all you need to know about the movie in general.)

William Castle's gimmicky ghost story is a lip-smacking, ultra-campy and downright FUN low-budget classic, and Vincent Price is at his leering best. As his duplicitous cold-as-ice wife, Carol Ohmart is also excellent, and possesses a powerful scream. With the exception of one supporting character, the others are fine, if unremarkable, performers. The only part of the movie I continually find insufferable is Elisha Cook Jr, an actor seemingly born to play milquetoasts; his character, and his portrayal, are grating at best, and one really longs for him to get knocked off at some point (a desire unmet, darn it). He snivels and cowers and just generally acts like an idiot throughout the course of the film. Early on, he opens the acid pit which is going to play a big, big part in the proceedings. WHY no one bothers to simply CLOSE IT AGAIN, I don't know. (Of course, expecting rational behavior is not to be expected in a William Castle motion picture!) No matter its shortcomings (a set that tends to show up the meager budget and is, in some ways, dull; Elisha Cook Jr) it's still a hoot to watch! ***BEWARE the AWFUL colorized version - the 'colors' are inconsistent from shot to shot and are just a distraction.***

This, folks, is it: the end of the run for this series, which, several years prior, had been a the very top of the ratings but at this point had reached the bottom rungs: it was placed in #59 out of 65 shows airing, and, in fact, by the time this aired, the show had been cancelled months before; this episode, and the several before it, were 'burned off' in the summer, long after its audience has largely deserted it, and while it definitely has the feel, the flavor, of a 'final episode', it's also not altogether satisfying. As other reviewers have stated, NONE of the former Angels make an appearance here, and neither does anyone in Kelly Garret's family, and the sad fact is that the producers, and ABC, had already given up on the show and weren't going to put anymore money towards what was clearly a sinking ship, hence the clip-show style and lack of extra characters. That said, yes, it WOULD be awfully nice to have found a way to bring back Kate Jackson or Farrah Fawcett, even just to have their characters call in with concern for their former colleague. The clip-show aspect DOES provide an opportunity for Jaclyn Smith to display some pretty decent acting chops, and Cheryl Ladd does well, too; David Doyle and Tanya Roberts DO try their best with the dramatics, with varying degrees of success. What the clip-show aspect DOESN'T help with is the pace: it's glacial here, and while a tone of dread is reached for - will Kelly live or die? - the clips are too few to really provide a trip down memory lane (the producers are obviously VERY CAREFUL to have ZERO clips of former stars Farraw Fawett, Kate Jackson, or Shelley Hack, whose characters aren't even MENTIONED, let alone shown). Altogether, because by this point the folks behind the camera had clearly given up, and the network had lost complete interest, there's a distinct feeling of cheapness about this final episode. It may NOT have actually been intended to wrap up the series but it certainly comes across that way (one gets the feeling the actors already either suspected or knew the end was nigh) and it's VERY clear, to even a casual viewer, the verve, the energy, of this show, was missing in this episode. So, while it comes to a satisfactory conclusion (we even get to see the ever-elusive Charlie Townsend, despite his face largely covered by a surgical mask), it's just not a very satisfying ending, I'm sorry to say.

I'd heard all the bad press when it came out. But tonight, while surfing the TV, HBO played it and, well, I decided to see for myself just how bad it really was. Why not, right? There was a chance I could like it. "Kung Pow: Enter the Fist" seemed to bring out the worst in everyone, but I thought it was a hoot. Lightning could strike twice...Right? You can't blame a boy for hoping. Sadly, everything you've heard is true: this isn't just BAD - they haven't even come up with words to describe just HOW BAD this movie is! I love parody movies, even if they HAVE been done to death. Some of the "Scary Movie" series was laugh-out-loud hilarious. Mel Brooks, of course, had it down to a science (though, thankfully, he stopped after that lead brick, "Dracula: Dead and Loving It"). The makers of this film have apparently watched every parody ever made...and promptly forgot everything that made the great ones great, while simultaneously remembering everything the lousy ones did wrong. The ONLY thing "right" they did was in hiring Alyson Hannigan as their star; like Anna Faris in "Scary Movie", she has a winsome style, a real charm, not unlike a young Goldie Hawn, complete with spot-on knack for physical comedy. With a proper director and good, tight script, I'd bet money she'd be a bigger star today. She has that potential. Wait. I lied. They did one other thing very right: also hiring Jennifer Coolidge, here channeling Barbra Streisand as the 'Roz' character from "Meet the Fockers", and she is, as usual, a real scene-stealer. In fact, while they have nothing in common physically, she, Alyson Hannigan, and Anna Faris (who is NOT in this movie) DO share that same quality Lucille Ball had: that willingness to make a fool of herself on camera for the sake of a good laugh. Alas, I'd like to say that despite this quality, poor Alyson is given nothing - oh, and I do mean NOTHING - to work with here; I can't remember a single laugh, though she tries manfully to make it work, despite itself. Beyond her, and Coolidge, the rest of the cast is pitiful. Yes, even the ubiquitous Fred Willard is substandard, and THAT is saying something about the state of this movie! Adam Campbell, as Alyson's love interest, displays near-zero comedy abilities, a trait shared by one Sophie Monk (as the supposedly-hot love rival of Hannigan). Worse still is the appearance of a man who can bring ANY film down with one fell swoop: Eddie Griffin. HOW does this man maintain a career as a "comedian"? Like Jerry Lewis at his very late-60's worst, he's truly convinced of his own "greatness". Uh...yeah. Right. He's as laugh-free here, as ever. The film makers further scrape the bottom of that barrel by tossing in, at the last moment, Carmen Electra, who, just like Pamela Anderson and Jenny McCarthy before her, seem to believe they're funny just because they're buxom, and ready and able to disrobe in half a heartbeat. But I digress from what TRULY makes this movie one of THE very worst ever made - and I don't make that assessment lightly: as a lover of bad-bad movies, I've seen hundreds, maybe even thousands - the (ahem) "jokes". I will do my best to offer up a partial list of the films parodied within its 80-or-so minutes: "Bridget Jones' Diary", "Napoleon Dynamite", "Hitch", "Kill Bill", "My Big Fat Greek Wedding", "Meet the Parents/Fockers", "Dodgeball", "When Harry Met Sally", "Mr & Mrs Smith", "Say Anything", the latest "King Kong", "Lord of the Rings", "Legally Blonde", "Sweet Home Alabama". Yes, there are more, and no, I'm sure I didn't get all the references. But think about it: how many of those movies listed is SO iconic that it is RIPE for making fun of? Yes, a few MAY be big enough but...well, so bereft are the writers, director, and producers that they even stoop to copying off the very scene from "When Harry Met Sally" that you'd expect them to. And it goes on. And On. And ON. AND ON. Adding insult to injury, some of those films are just TOO OLD to be referenced successfully! I swear, it's like they went through a movie-review book, opened a page, stuck a pin in, and mocked whatever flick they landed on! One user here said it's as if they copied scenes whole, note for note, and, unfortunately, that's right on the button. But simply replaying scenes, note for note, but with a funny face, or tossing it in without any reason, or throwing in potty humor, doesn't make it funny. These guys wouldn't know "funny" if it bit them. Seems they also made the current, "Epic Movie", the previews of which look like a walking, talking DISASTER. If Uwe Boll can be ripped a new one for HIS craptastic masterpieces, these doofuses SURELY must be next! To be avoided at ALL costs.

***Spoilers may be contained within*** According to this movie's "trivia" section, the book's author, Dean R Koontz, was sorely disappointed in the movie adaptation and asked that his name be removed. He had every right to be peeved. I saw this in theatres when it was released and was soundly disappointed, too. The previews seemed kind of interesting but I have to admit I'm a Christine Lahti fan, even though her role in this is strictly "the wife". The story is that of a man, played by Jeff Goldblum, who, following a near-death experience, finds he is psychically linked with a serial killer, played by Jeremy Sisto, who decides to go after Goldblum's daughter (Alicia Silverstone). A cat-and-mouse thriller with sci-fi overtones. I've never read the Koontz book on which this is based. Goodness knows it can't be any worse. As lead, Goldblum is OK, I guess, though he's given this basic performance before. Lahti, unfortunately, is wasted in a part that could be played by just about ANY actress; it's a step up from "and how was YOUR day, dear?" but not much. Silverstone, charming in "Clueless", here is little more than an irritant, nearly making one rather root for the killer, but she can often be irritating in films, so I can't say if it's the fault of the part as written or the actress. As said villain, Jeremy Sisto has obviously watched every other psycho-on-the-loose movie and decided to "juice it up" a bit: he rolls his eyes, leers, laughs "maniacally", tries to seem intimidating by staring through lowered eyes. Every trick in the book is trotted out in his performance and for naught: he's about as terrifying as a computer geek. Sisto can, in other performances, be hammy, and he's no less so here: one nearly expects to see him studded with cloves and pineapple slices. Oh, it's not TOTALLY his fault, since the pedestrian script practically BEGS for overacting; I suppose if he DIDN'T chew the scenery, it might actually be less entertaining than it already IS. Beyond its psychic-link tricks, the film, in its less-than-chilling climax, throws in, seemingly out of nowhere, the twist that this is almost literally a battle between (of course) good and evil. This is revealed with a scene when Goldblum and Sisto are finally staring one another down, and a shot of red flames are visible in Sisto's eye; suddenly, in response, we see a flash of white-blue light in Goldblum's eye. A moment later, flames shoot and rise from Sisto's body, forming a fireball above him; blue-white rays of light pour forth from a kneeling Goldblum, forming a vaguely female form above him. The combination of film-school "special" effects (if they look cheesy on the SMALL screen, you can't IMAGINE how bad they were in the theatre!), this last-minute twist, and the inability to stretch one's suspension of disbelief any longer, is fatal. I heard several voices in the audience yell out, in unison, "Oh, COME ON!" From some of the reviews listed here, this movie has a fair number of supporters. I can only wonder just what version of this movie they saw.

Poor Sean Young. Once upon a time she was an actress with such a bright future, poised, seemingly, for great stardom. She even had a quality that recalled some of the glamour and allure of the 40's and 50's. Put to good use in such films as "Blade Runner" and "No Way Out", there seemed nearly no end in sight. And then her "difficult" personality got in the way and Oliver Stone fired her from "Wall Street", in which she was to have a major part; then her alleged relationship with former co-star James Woods, and subsequent "Fatal Attraction"-style antics against him, in addition to her amusingly disturbing all-out efforts to snag the role of 'Catwoman' in the first sequel to "Batman", seemed to have a snowball effect, effectively curtailing her trajectory and reducing her to such projects as "Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde" and numerous direct-to-cable/video duds. While "A Kiss Before Dying" has a much better pedigree than "Dr Jekyll and Ms Hyde" ever could, thanks in part to being based on a solid, little Ira Levin book and blessed with at least two respected actors (Diane Ladd and Max Von Sydow), it, too, is a near-total failure, and Sean Young is, sadly, a major factor as to 'why'. With a strong director and viable material, she has proved to be a good actor and oddly charismatic, even when the film didn't warrant it (see "Blade Runner"). She was never a GREAT actress, mind you, but had an unmistakable appeal. Here, however, even that appeal seems gone, for nothing can disguise her sleepwalking performance in a dual role as twins, one of whom is murdered (her death scene is brutal), the other of whom decides to investigate the death, never believing it was the suicide it was assumed to be. Soon after her investigation begins, she meets the man who, unbeknownst to her, murdered her sister. This man is played by Matt Dillon, who is supposed to be charming, seductive, secretive, elusive, and ruthless. While one can easily imagine an actor as physically pretty as Robert Wagner - he wasn't just 'handsome', he was 'pretty', let's face it - Matt Dillon is simply wrong, in every manner, for this part. Totally miscast, he is neither particularly charming nor seductive, and seemingly unable to register the ruthlessness and danger the part calls for. His thick, New York accent is also a distraction, at least in this role. That he and Young have absolutely no chemistry doesn't help matters any, making yet another major quibble a minor one: both seem a bit too old. In supporting roles, as Dillon's mother and Young's father, Diane Ladd and Max Von Sydow provide much-needed class to the potboiler/neo-noir proceedings, though Ladd comes off more successfully; Von Sydow is utterly wasted. ANY actor could have done his role - why choose someone SO spectacularly talented for such a thankless part? As for the screenplay, though based on the book, it seems to be stuffed with every cliché from every modern-day thriller, right down to the routine and predictable climax (apparently reshot after test audiences didn't approve) and the pointless, if limited, sex scenes, which might titillate some (thanks to mild nudity) but do nothing to further the plot or add to the tension. The direction, too, is at fault: since everything here is something you've seen before (and in much better films), and nearly each moment is telegraphed well in advance, there are practically zero chills or thrills to be had. Strong actors may have been able to smooth over these problems, but again, the film is done no service by its leads, particularly Young, who is plain AWFUL. It surely stands with Demi Moore in "The Scarlet Letter" and Elizabeth Berkley in "Showgirls" as being one of THE worst performances in a major motion picture - and, perhaps, even WORSE because Young is playing TWO parts. She rightfully won her 2 Razzies (for Worst Actress and Supporting Actress). But, as said, Dillon's not too much better. A little bit but not much. HIS line readings, at least, don't suggest a coma. Unfortunately, for the audience, a coma might just be preferable to sitting through this lot.

The original "Gloria", a 1980 John Cassavettes film starring his wife Gena Rowlands, was an instant classic; be it his direction, the acting (particularly that of Rowlands, who so deserved her Oscar nomination for her performance as the titular character), the gritty look of the film, the authentic New York City locations in all their pre-Guiliani glory, or the screenplay, the film worked on just about every level. This remake, however, stands in pale (VERY pale) contrast in virtually any aspect one can think of. When the film opens, Gloria (Sharon Stone), a gangster's moll, is released from prison and returns to the home/hangout of her lover, Kevin (Jeremy Northam). By the time she arrives, she meets a young Latin boy, Nicky (Jean-Luke Figueroa), whose family Gloria's lover has had killed. Seems the young boy's father worked for this gangster and not only "knew too much" but was about to tell all. Having believed her lover's story that there would be money set aside for her while she cooled her heels in prison, Gloria soon finds out there is nothing, so, enraged and knowing the boy's worth, she kidnaps him at gun point and off they go, on the run from the mob. Poor Sharon Stone: trying SO HARD to match Gena Rowlands but constantly tripped up by a "Noo Yawk" accent that's often downright funny. Still, it's so apparent she's trying so hard that, throughout, you can't help but feel for her, a feat helped by the fact that she is obviously the only cast member who tries to create a character, though as written it's still the "hooker with a heart of gold" type, which is NOT the case with the 1980 film. In the original, Gloria is indeed a former gun moll, kind of ballsy but classy, never really hard-edged; here, as written, she's little more than a cheap, hard floozy. Jeremy Northam, a talented British actor, is slumming here, complete with laughable accent that rivals Sharon Stone's. As the boy Stone goes on the run with, and with whom she is supposed to bond with, Jean-Luke Figueroa isn't necessarily untalented, and in a better-made movie he might even be good; however, be it the dialogue or direction, he makes very little impact, a fact not helped by the lack of ANY chemistry between he and Stone. Bonnie Bedelia (as Stone's sister) and George C Scott (looking very ill, as a Mafioso head) are featured in small supporting roles but are essentially wasted. Sharp-eyed movie lovers will also notice the ubiquitous Mike Starr as a 'heavy' (he's the one who hangs on to the car Stone is driving); like character actor Dan Hedaya, Starr seemed to inhabit just about every film Hollywood made in the 90's, though here, Starr's part is strictly dramatic and not his usual comedic one. Behind it all is Sidney Lumet, a once-talented director who has helmed a few masterpieces in his time; however, whatever muses guided him towards those masterpieces has, in the last decade or two, abandoned him, for here he is again, delivering yet another celluloid stillborn. Not since 1982's "The Verdict", with Paul Newman, has he given the world a solid success. He isn't helped any by a screenplay that manages to ape the original while making absurd "updates" and taking liberties that cleanly toss out such things as believability and common sense. For instance, at the end, Gloria meets with the Mafioso head and asks that she be absolved of any wrongdoing AND to have the kid. He agrees. And off they go, into the wild blue yonder. In the original, Gloria has to shoot her way out to keep this young boy alive. One doesn't have to be particularly wise to mob life to understand that a Mafia capo isn't exactly going to let someone with that much knowledge just walk away. I absolutely adore the original film; I think it's exciting, moving, thrilling storytelling. If you feel the same way, avoid this picture at all costs. I happen to like Sharon Stone; I think in some ways she IS underrated as an actress, though one wishes she'd choose pictures that didn't suck. If you like her, you may enjoy her performance, if not the film. She tries, perhaps too hard. But like so many remakes, this one's a bust in every respect. Stick with John Cassevettes' original and understand why they shouldn't have even bothered with this new one.

Ah, "Night of the Juggler"! Someone has called it a "New York Sleazefest"; unfortunately, they got it all wrong, for it is more a "New York CHEESEfest". This tale of a former, disgraced, ex-cop whose daughter is kidnapped by mistake and his search for her and the man who has taken her, tried desperately to be gritty and 'real' but manages only to be as pure ham as its villain, Cliff Gorman, who continued here to swallow scenery - and fellow actors - whole, just as he had in every single movie unfortunate to have him in it. Perhaps nothing prepares the viewer for how bad the proceedings will be better than its opening scene, wherein Gorman violently douses a plate of eggs and bacon with ketchup, all meant to suggest how "unhinged" he his. Not for a moment off-putting or disturbing, as it's intended to be, one can only laugh at its absurdity. Soon after the eggs-and-ketchup-as-blood bit, we're treated to overly earnest, bearded he-man James Brolin, bedecked in the era's best flannel shirt and jeans, and his pubescent daughter, played by one Abby Bluestone. It is at this point when the film jumps clearly from amusing schlock into thigh-slapping camp, as the director, cinematographer, and especially the costume designer seem determined to humiliate the poor actress: from the get-go, she performs in a manner that suggests...well...mild retardation, what with her slow-as-molasses line readings, whiny voice, lumbering movements that suggest any movement beyond reaching for a Happy Meal will sap all her energy, and a costume that is, at best, an insult to any young woman, let alone one who is, um, quite so "cuddly". While it's initially refreshing to see a plus-size young girl on screen in lieu of any number of underfed so-called beauties, WHO exactly decided to put this already-unattractive chubette in a shapeless Osh Kosh B'Gosh denim overall and give her that hideous Richard Simmons white-boy afro??? If this getup was supposed to suggest a certain tomboyish quality, it fails, for you can't help but notice just how much she resembles that "It's Pat" character from those unfunny "SNL" skits. While you pity the poor thing this cross to bear, her acting only inspires greater laughter. Once she's abducted by Gorman, who - I swear - rolls his eyes, licks his lips, and would, if he had one, twirl his mustache, things get even hokier, as Brolin manhandles all who get in the way of finding his kid, including the ubiquitous Dan Hedaya in an early appearance as a less-than-receptive cop who has his own beef with Brolin. Hedaya matches Gorman toe-to-toe in their attempts to out-cheese one another (though they share no screen time), and he nearly wins. Hedaya's scenery-chewing, and the film's ridiculousness, reach new heights in a scene where he chases Brolin through the streets of this pre-Disney/Pataki/Guiliani New York City, shooting up everyone and everything, presumably without much recourse...until, of course, Brolin punches him out. Of course! Along the way, Brolin meets up with a young Mandy Patinkin, here miscast as an Hispanic cabbie (replete with Speedy Gonzalez accent), porn star/health activist Sharon Lawrence (as an exotic dancer in a an adult bookstore - back when NYC still had them!), Linda Miller as his ex-wife (she's one of those actresses who can sob and sob but magically produce no visible tears) and, finally, Julie Carmen, who decides to help him. The scene where the Latin street gang chase them is, alone, worth countless laughs as - you guessed it! - Brolin doles out his special brand of brawn and shows them what-for. I particularly enjoy a moment during the gang chase where Brolin and Carmen seem to merely be jogging away from them. Things degenerate when the film tries to become lurid and sensational with the twist that Gorman has just kidnapped this ungainly kid not only for ransom but for 'romantic' purposes, to boot. The scene where he tries to force her to wear a dress is a hoot, instead of being tense, thanks to two rotten performers bouncing off one another: Gorman, all tics and actor's tricks, emoting for all the world to see; and Bluestone, whiny and generally unsympathetic (other than the fact that she's a kid, one doesn't really care about her). What makes it all that much worse is that, despite numerous opportunities to escape, this girl does nothing, for the most part, and when she finally DOES attempt a getaway, you'll be biting your lip as this pudgy pubescent waddles her way over assorted rubble. If it sounds like I'm being cruel, or "fattist", let me add here I, too, am not food-shy and have plenty of extra baggage of my own. So, quite frankly, if the makers of this film, nor its actress, nor anyone else involved, cared enough to present her in a flattering light, why should the viewer make apologies? Finally, the showdown between Brolin and Gorman comes, and it takes place underground (pathetically underlit, in the old video transfer I own). Try and suppress those giggles as the filmmakers want us to believe Gorman is any match for punch-first-ask-questions-later Brolin. Those same suppressed giggles will automatically be unleashed at the moment when, sensing he's lost, Gorman attempts one last attack on Brolin and lunges for him, emitting this high-pitched, utterly girlish, squeal that'll have you rolling on the floor. A few moments later, all and sundry walk off into the sunrise and an ill-fitting disco tune rears from nowhere over the end credits. While it may appeal to the action-flick crowd, or a less-demanding audience, its REAL appeal lies at the feet of those of us who truly treasure lousy movie-making. If that's you, go ahead and indulge. WALLOW in its awfulness. My friend Michelle considers this one of the great laugh-out-loud experiences. Give it a shot and see if you don't agree.