One of those boyhood-pals-on-opposite-sides-of-the-law affairs, with a blonde thrown in between them to create a romantic triangle as well. For the most part it is decently and appropriately old-fashioned: the production is not out of proportion; the action, or violence as you prefer, is not excessive; the narrative is fast out of the blocks and manages to remain focussed on a single issue -- taking no sideroads to Lively Diversions or scenic routes to Larger Meaning. (It is not so sharply focussed, though, as to make the rush of events, which may have made sense in outline form, immediately comprehensible.) And its silkily fluent and tartly flavorful dialogue is a strong enough point of interest to survive even the weak deliveries of two of the three principals: not Kurt Russell, but Mel (I Am Not an Aussie) Gibson and Michelle (Let Me Blow in Your Ear) Pfeiffer. The ending -- dusting off stuff like the old four-handed wrestle over a gun, the gun going off below the picture frame, both wrestlers looking pained or relieved, and then at each other to see which of them is going to fall down first -- reveals the movie to have been a good deal less serious-minded, a good deal more audience-conscious and audience-coddling, than had previously been apparent. All in all it is easily and passingly enjoyable: able, that is, with little effort or aftertaste, to be (only just) enjoyed. With Raul Julia; written and directed by Robert Towne. (1988) — Duncan Shepherd
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