An enjoyable piece of fluff, built solely around the notion that Kim Basinger has some kind of metabolic disorder that renders her a reckless drunk if she takes the slightest bit of alcohol. Workaholic Bruce Willis is talked into taking her to dinner at a fancy French restaurant in LA but has underestimated the magnitude of her problem and sees to it that she has a bit of champagne.
What follows is an amusing concoction of slapstick, insane dialog, embarrassing situations, and character development in which Bruce Willis turns from a pragmatist into a Dionysian fool.
These are well-off people we're talking about. They live in the kind of Southern California milieu in which everyone is expected to have a swimming pool. I counted eight people who were pushed, fell, or were forced to dive into one of the pools to escape a a dog. The hedges are all perfectly barbered, the grass neatly trimmed, the interiors impeccable, and the acreage infinite, all rather like my place.
The comedy is usually slapstick. People fall off balconies, ladders, and, in one case, a tree after being hit accidentally on the head with a golf ball. One running gag is effective by any measure. John Larroquette, as Basinger's jealous lover, follows the couple in his car and when his attention is distracted, which it is, three times, his car leaves the road and invariably smashes through a plate glass window -- once a paint shop, once a pet store, and I forget the third. Each time he picks up souvenirs of his accident until he finds himself speeding along in a battered, paint-splashed car, his own clothes and face varicolored, and being blinded from behind by some kind of chirping primate. And this is a man who, though a lecher, is rich and dignified.
The burlesque alternates with less frenzied moments, and the dialog is sometimes funny. Larroquette is a lawyer who has decided to defend Willis in court. His very presence draws an angry comment from the judge, William Daniels, who is perfect in the role. "I hoped never to see you in this courtroom again," snarls the judge. Larroquette approaches the judge and smoothly blackmails him into letting the defendant go, while he himself promises never to practice in the judge's jurisdiction again. Daniels scowls, ponders the proposition, then finally agrees, because the prospect of getting rid of Larroquette is simply too bright for him to resist. With a smile, the lawyer leans across the bench and says earnestly, "Thanks, Dad."
There are some weaknesses too. On those few sips of wine, Basinger stays drunk for a long time, and when she sobers up and wants to go home, the crazed Willis drags her to another party, which he invades. There he swills down booze, gets loaded, and jiggles matzoh balls while insulting the guests. Drunks -- seriatim. And of course not all the gags succeed. But when they do, they can be subtle as well as obvious. "Get on with the wedding," Daniels orders, "and kill the dog." The minister begins his intonations while, off screen, a distant gunshot is heard.
Blake Edwards is adept at handling comedies. Sometime's he's made something out of virtually nothing, as in "The Party." He does pretty well by this script.
What follows is an amusing concoction of slapstick, insane dialog, embarrassing situations, and character development in which Bruce Willis turns from a pragmatist into a Dionysian fool.
These are well-off people we're talking about. They live in the kind of Southern California milieu in which everyone is expected to have a swimming pool. I counted eight people who were pushed, fell, or were forced to dive into one of the pools to escape a a dog. The hedges are all perfectly barbered, the grass neatly trimmed, the interiors impeccable, and the acreage infinite, all rather like my place.
The comedy is usually slapstick. People fall off balconies, ladders, and, in one case, a tree after being hit accidentally on the head with a golf ball. One running gag is effective by any measure. John Larroquette, as Basinger's jealous lover, follows the couple in his car and when his attention is distracted, which it is, three times, his car leaves the road and invariably smashes through a plate glass window -- once a paint shop, once a pet store, and I forget the third. Each time he picks up souvenirs of his accident until he finds himself speeding along in a battered, paint-splashed car, his own clothes and face varicolored, and being blinded from behind by some kind of chirping primate. And this is a man who, though a lecher, is rich and dignified.
The burlesque alternates with less frenzied moments, and the dialog is sometimes funny. Larroquette is a lawyer who has decided to defend Willis in court. His very presence draws an angry comment from the judge, William Daniels, who is perfect in the role. "I hoped never to see you in this courtroom again," snarls the judge. Larroquette approaches the judge and smoothly blackmails him into letting the defendant go, while he himself promises never to practice in the judge's jurisdiction again. Daniels scowls, ponders the proposition, then finally agrees, because the prospect of getting rid of Larroquette is simply too bright for him to resist. With a smile, the lawyer leans across the bench and says earnestly, "Thanks, Dad."
There are some weaknesses too. On those few sips of wine, Basinger stays drunk for a long time, and when she sobers up and wants to go home, the crazed Willis drags her to another party, which he invades. There he swills down booze, gets loaded, and jiggles matzoh balls while insulting the guests. Drunks -- seriatim. And of course not all the gags succeed. But when they do, they can be subtle as well as obvious. "Get on with the wedding," Daniels orders, "and kill the dog." The minister begins his intonations while, off screen, a distant gunshot is heard.
Blake Edwards is adept at handling comedies. Sometime's he's made something out of virtually nothing, as in "The Party." He does pretty well by this script.