How anyone could enjoy this crap is beyond me. The dialog is extremely dull, the jokes unfunny and the plot has all the tension of a wet noodle. A nefarious art expert trying to cover up some Rembrandt misattributions mixes weirdly with pseudo-Hitchcockian killers on a train. The badness of the writing is matched by the slackness of the direction. I suspect a few too many joints share the blame.
Why do Jill Clayburgh and Gene Wilder fall instantly in love? Because the screenwriter says they do. Some vapid lines are traded and they fall into bed, where ponderous double-entendres about gardening substitute for both sexiness and humor. "Son of a bitch!" is a favorite way of expressing emotion. As for the acting, only Richard Pryor shows a spark of charm. Jill Clayburgh looks like she's sleepwalking. I get tired just thinking about it, but having read all the good comments here I had to try to warn at least a few who might be looking for a real movie.
Why do Jill Clayburgh and Gene Wilder fall instantly in love? Because the screenwriter says they do. Some vapid lines are traded and they fall into bed, where ponderous double-entendres about gardening substitute for both sexiness and humor. "Son of a bitch!" is a favorite way of expressing emotion. As for the acting, only Richard Pryor shows a spark of charm. Jill Clayburgh looks like she's sleepwalking. I get tired just thinking about it, but having read all the good comments here I had to try to warn at least a few who might be looking for a real movie.