A bomb that’s better than most smash hits.
Paying homage to Cary Grant-era screwball comedies, this film is best remembered — if it’s remembered at all — as being a money loser for writer/producer George Lucas.
But, like his other “mark of shame” — the unfairly-maligned Howard the Duck — it’s survived the naysayers to become a cult classic.
Careening around a radio station in 1939, a husband-and-wife team on the edge of divorce find themselves trying to solve a series of murders.
The dialogue cracks like a whip, no one stops moving, and it’s a frantic good time.
At least in my eyes.