Both John Travolta and Lisa Kudrow are television personalities in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. He's a weather anchor. On the side, he runs a car dealership and he's stocked up on snowmobiles praying for a snowy winter from Gracious Providence, but not having anticipated the winter's warmth. She's the glitzy girl who pulls balls out of a machine to determine the state's winning lottery number. Neither is going anywhere.
With the aid of their friend, Tim Roth, who manages a strip bar and restaurant, they concoct a scheme to win the lottery by distracting the Security Guard and injecting certain balls with a liquid that makes them heavier than others.
Of course they can't present the winning ticket themselves. It might look funny. So they enlist the help of Kudrow's idiot cousin, Michael Moore, who dies of status asthmaticus at an awkward time. And, similarly, Tim Roth drags in some avaricious goons for some dirty work that later developments demand.
It's a promising story, by Adam Resnik, and director Nora Ephron picks up the ball and runs with it. As comedy, this is about as black as it gets. It's a black comedy with characters adhering to nothing but hypothetical imperatives. What do I get out of it? There's nothing morally wrong with murder except that it leads to the inconvenient presence of dead bodies that must then be accounted for and disposed of.
The dialog sparkles with cynical wit. Michael Moore is rapturous describing the joys of masturbation, while eying his cousin's breasts.
Travolta is surprisingly good as the phony pitchman for snowmobiles and weather. And Kudrow is delicate and pretty in a quirky way. There's something bird-like about her long neck and darting glances, something that reminds one of an emu.
Decent comedies rarely get the approval they deserve. Perhaps the comedy market is glutted with too much raunch that it not, in itself, funny. This one deserves applause.
With the aid of their friend, Tim Roth, who manages a strip bar and restaurant, they concoct a scheme to win the lottery by distracting the Security Guard and injecting certain balls with a liquid that makes them heavier than others.
Of course they can't present the winning ticket themselves. It might look funny. So they enlist the help of Kudrow's idiot cousin, Michael Moore, who dies of status asthmaticus at an awkward time. And, similarly, Tim Roth drags in some avaricious goons for some dirty work that later developments demand.
It's a promising story, by Adam Resnik, and director Nora Ephron picks up the ball and runs with it. As comedy, this is about as black as it gets. It's a black comedy with characters adhering to nothing but hypothetical imperatives. What do I get out of it? There's nothing morally wrong with murder except that it leads to the inconvenient presence of dead bodies that must then be accounted for and disposed of.
The dialog sparkles with cynical wit. Michael Moore is rapturous describing the joys of masturbation, while eying his cousin's breasts.
Travolta is surprisingly good as the phony pitchman for snowmobiles and weather. And Kudrow is delicate and pretty in a quirky way. There's something bird-like about her long neck and darting glances, something that reminds one of an emu.
Decent comedies rarely get the approval they deserve. Perhaps the comedy market is glutted with too much raunch that it not, in itself, funny. This one deserves applause.