Another instance of mediocrity aging gently into something slightly more interesting, with goofball jokes about escape artists, avant-garde meals and spiky self defense bras a bit more welcome contrasted against today’s staidly detached comedic climate. Meanwhile, the visual humor potential of appalling restaurant décor and gigantic squiggly breadsticks remains timeless. Also, on the subject of finger foods, contains what’s likely the only captured images of Bowie snapping into a Slim Jim.
Delightfully absurd. Like the last gasp of New York's New Wave period and fittingly it goes out with David Bowie by its side. I'm not even sure if this could accurately be described as a romantic comedy or a heist film or a slapstick comedy, because it fleetingly moves in and out of genre with an almost outsider art skepticism towards form.