It resembles one of those movies out of Hollywood in the 1930s, with people like Jean Arthur and Jimmy Stewart. It's a light-hearted comedy that warms the cockles of your heart, if your heart has any cockles at all.
Nicholas Cage is a police officer who lives in Woodside, Queens, with his wife Rosie Perez. She'd love to get out of Queens but Cage has grown up there and rather likes the working class ambiance. He likes his job too. She's restless. They don't have too much to say to one another anymore, although that doesn't stop Rosie Perez from talking.
One afternoon, Cage and his partner (an affable African-American) stop in a luncheonette for coffee. Bridget Fonda, who has just run out of money and declared bankruptcy that morning, is their waitress. Her caddish husband, Stanley Tucci, maxed out their credit cards and took off on her. She's a nice girl. Well, I mean, she treats guys with AIDS with special consideration, obeys her mean boss's orders to the best of her ability, is efficient, and he co-workers like her.
When Cage tries to pay the bill, he realizes he doesn't have enough change to leave her a tip. Cage gives Fonda a choice: Double the tip tomorrow, or no tip at all but half his winnings in case he wins the New York State lottery. She's been so battered by life that she chooses "door number two," figuring nothing will come of either choice.
Of course something does come of it. Life is a bed of pain but sometimes the maid leaves a bonbon on the pillow case. Cage wins four million bucks. And he's such a good guy that he honors his promise to Fonda to give her half of it -- much to the chagrin of his wife who, at this point, has begun to sound like a yapping little chihuahua.
Perez gets into re-doing their apartment in a manner so ugly that even I -- who live in what looks like the reincarnation of an Egyptian whorehouse from 1910 -- noticed its ugliness. She buys expensive furs and has her boobs done, and she takes up with an older guy who knows how to make her money work for her.
I leave it to the discerning viewer to guess what happens between nice Bridget Fonda and nice Nicholas Cage. I also leave it to the viewer to guess whether the two of them find that money is far from the most important thing in life.
Nicholas Cage usually brings something interesting to his roles, and here he's at least believable in a part that -- let's face facts -- is essentially a challenge to our phenomenological reduction. A New York cop who loves Queens and won't quit his job no matter what. Bridget Fonda is an exceptionally attractive woman with rather broad, bony shoulders, a nice figure, and legs that slither when she walks, but this isn't her kind of part. She's not a New York waitress. She's a California surfer girl who doesn't know what we achieved independence from on July 4th. She thinks Independence Day is just an excuse for fireworks and parades.
Stanley Tucci, as the manipulative husband, isn't around much but I can't think of a performance of his that I haven't admired. The rest of the supporting cast is pretty good.
But now I've had time to rethink things. In that hypothetical 1930s movie? Delete Jean Arthur. She whines too much. Substitute Rosalind Russell, who is better at being driven to frenzy.
Nicholas Cage is a police officer who lives in Woodside, Queens, with his wife Rosie Perez. She'd love to get out of Queens but Cage has grown up there and rather likes the working class ambiance. He likes his job too. She's restless. They don't have too much to say to one another anymore, although that doesn't stop Rosie Perez from talking.
One afternoon, Cage and his partner (an affable African-American) stop in a luncheonette for coffee. Bridget Fonda, who has just run out of money and declared bankruptcy that morning, is their waitress. Her caddish husband, Stanley Tucci, maxed out their credit cards and took off on her. She's a nice girl. Well, I mean, she treats guys with AIDS with special consideration, obeys her mean boss's orders to the best of her ability, is efficient, and he co-workers like her.
When Cage tries to pay the bill, he realizes he doesn't have enough change to leave her a tip. Cage gives Fonda a choice: Double the tip tomorrow, or no tip at all but half his winnings in case he wins the New York State lottery. She's been so battered by life that she chooses "door number two," figuring nothing will come of either choice.
Of course something does come of it. Life is a bed of pain but sometimes the maid leaves a bonbon on the pillow case. Cage wins four million bucks. And he's such a good guy that he honors his promise to Fonda to give her half of it -- much to the chagrin of his wife who, at this point, has begun to sound like a yapping little chihuahua.
Perez gets into re-doing their apartment in a manner so ugly that even I -- who live in what looks like the reincarnation of an Egyptian whorehouse from 1910 -- noticed its ugliness. She buys expensive furs and has her boobs done, and she takes up with an older guy who knows how to make her money work for her.
I leave it to the discerning viewer to guess what happens between nice Bridget Fonda and nice Nicholas Cage. I also leave it to the viewer to guess whether the two of them find that money is far from the most important thing in life.
Nicholas Cage usually brings something interesting to his roles, and here he's at least believable in a part that -- let's face facts -- is essentially a challenge to our phenomenological reduction. A New York cop who loves Queens and won't quit his job no matter what. Bridget Fonda is an exceptionally attractive woman with rather broad, bony shoulders, a nice figure, and legs that slither when she walks, but this isn't her kind of part. She's not a New York waitress. She's a California surfer girl who doesn't know what we achieved independence from on July 4th. She thinks Independence Day is just an excuse for fireworks and parades.
Stanley Tucci, as the manipulative husband, isn't around much but I can't think of a performance of his that I haven't admired. The rest of the supporting cast is pretty good.
But now I've had time to rethink things. In that hypothetical 1930s movie? Delete Jean Arthur. She whines too much. Substitute Rosalind Russell, who is better at being driven to frenzy.