William Hurt is a night janitor in an office building in which the murder of a powerful Vietnamese wheeler and dealer takes place. The police suspect him of knowing more than he's willing to tell, especially about the presence at the scene of Hurt's weird friend from his days in Vietnam, James Woods. Two police lieutenants, Steven Hill and Morgan Freeman, follow them both around.
Hurt has had a crush on a television reporter, Sigourney Weaver, for years and when she questions him with her camera crew, he kvells and hints that he's holding something back. Like the journalist she is, she allows him to get close to her with predictable results.
Also with predictable problems associated with sexual and emotional traffic between the social classes. Hurt is a lowly Irish guy with a paralyzed Dad who gets drunk, and strange friends. Weaver is a very wealthy young Jewish woman with a philanthropic upper-class family who is semi-engaged to the suave Christopher Plummer, an international promoter of Israeli causes.
Steve Tesich, the writer, and Peter Yates, the director, do a fine job of contrasting the handsome, charming, but luckless Hurt's life with that of Weaver in her sophisticated milieu.
And there are some surprisingly innovative scenes. Hurt, lugging his waspish father up a couple of flights of stairs, for instance. Or Hurt, after just meeting Weaver, asking her if she needs her floors buffed and then describing exactly how he'd do it -- he'd strip off the old layers of wax, then lay down a new coat, then he'd buff it and buff it and buff it -- gently -- slowly -- until it beamed, while Weaver gapes open-mouthed at him. It's hilarious.
Other scenes, lamentably, are hackneyed. There is a drawn-out fight between Hurt and his maddened dog that turns bathetic in an instant. And no matter how hard he tries, Yates simply cannot juice up still another sneaky pursuit through an abandoned warehouse, not even by turning the warehouse into a horse barn. The James Woods narrative, like the suspicion thrown on the Vietnamese Mafia, are red herrings.
Yet I was filled with admiration at the scene of Sigourney Weaver riding her splendid horse in Central Park. She's so slender and upright and seems to echo the stature of the horse on which she posts along so comfortably. And when she coaxes the horse into doing a couple of sideways steps a la seconde! The only problem with the dressage is that she's wearing brown suede chaps. That's meant to be a pun, though not as lousy as it is.
Hurt has had a crush on a television reporter, Sigourney Weaver, for years and when she questions him with her camera crew, he kvells and hints that he's holding something back. Like the journalist she is, she allows him to get close to her with predictable results.
Also with predictable problems associated with sexual and emotional traffic between the social classes. Hurt is a lowly Irish guy with a paralyzed Dad who gets drunk, and strange friends. Weaver is a very wealthy young Jewish woman with a philanthropic upper-class family who is semi-engaged to the suave Christopher Plummer, an international promoter of Israeli causes.
Steve Tesich, the writer, and Peter Yates, the director, do a fine job of contrasting the handsome, charming, but luckless Hurt's life with that of Weaver in her sophisticated milieu.
And there are some surprisingly innovative scenes. Hurt, lugging his waspish father up a couple of flights of stairs, for instance. Or Hurt, after just meeting Weaver, asking her if she needs her floors buffed and then describing exactly how he'd do it -- he'd strip off the old layers of wax, then lay down a new coat, then he'd buff it and buff it and buff it -- gently -- slowly -- until it beamed, while Weaver gapes open-mouthed at him. It's hilarious.
Other scenes, lamentably, are hackneyed. There is a drawn-out fight between Hurt and his maddened dog that turns bathetic in an instant. And no matter how hard he tries, Yates simply cannot juice up still another sneaky pursuit through an abandoned warehouse, not even by turning the warehouse into a horse barn. The James Woods narrative, like the suspicion thrown on the Vietnamese Mafia, are red herrings.
Yet I was filled with admiration at the scene of Sigourney Weaver riding her splendid horse in Central Park. She's so slender and upright and seems to echo the stature of the horse on which she posts along so comfortably. And when she coaxes the horse into doing a couple of sideways steps a la seconde! The only problem with the dressage is that she's wearing brown suede chaps. That's meant to be a pun, though not as lousy as it is.