This is better than I'd expected.
The general plot involves a happily married police detective, Berenger, assigned as a body guard for the aristocratic Rogers, who is a witness to a gang killing, the perp being Andreas Katsulas, who is real MEAN and enjoys puncturing his victim multiple times with an ice pick, not to mention slashing an expensive painting.
You'll recognize Katsulas because he was also the one-armed killer in "The Fugitive." His hawk-nosed features and beetling brows are unforgettable. Of course, Berenger and Rogers get to know one another and wind up in bed, much to the distress of Berenger's wife, Lorraine Bracco, in her first prominent role.
What I'd expected was a routine cop shoot-out with an extravaganza of special effects, high speed pursuits, bath tubs of gore, and a middle interlude with the beefy Berenger and the mammous Rogers doing the beast with two backs in candle light on the other side of a pastel curtain. Complete schlock.
Instead, it's a sometimes nicely observed story of an ordinary bourgeois guy from Queens, whose taste runs to beer, joking around with his loving but savvy wife, and wearing paisley ties to fancy parties. God only knows what kind of music he prefers. He probably thinks Kenny G is semi-classical. Some fun is poked at the aristoi's taste but a cello piece by Bach is nice and good use is made of Gershwin's title tune.
The getting-to-know-you routine is improbably fast but in any case Rogers introduces him to champagne, so to speak. Berenger's flatfoot is awed by her multi-million-dollar digs, is embarrassed when her high-end girl friends tell him what a hunk he is, and is reluctant to drink "cocktails", as he calls them, while on duty and to let Rogers buy him a new tie -- but he finally yields, as we all yield sooner or later. I approved of the way the writers contrasted Berenger's cramped and noisy home with the sybaritic splendor of Rogers' quarters.
I also rather liked the relationship between the various cops who form the dramatic background. Berenger of course is violating the rules by banging the witness he's supposed to be protecting but when he turns up late at night for a tryst, during another cop's watch, there is no melodrama. The other cop simply gets to his feet and says, "Tell me I'm dreaming." When Berenger is first discovered by another cop, the exchange is equally brief. "What are you doing here?" "I'm screwed up, T.J." And it's done in LONG SHOT, not close ups of anguished faces.
Not that some of the usual clichés are avoided. They worked before, so let's use them again, right? One example: Bracco awakens alone at night. She's heard a creaking noise outside the house. She puts on her dressing gown, creeps down the darkened stairway, slowly approaches the window (while the violin strings are practically worn threadbare by suspenseful tremolos), puts her eye to a slit at the window sill, and . . . and . . . AND . . . BANG! A hand reaches out from off the screen and clutches her shoulder. It's her little boy, Tommy. Well, one more example. A body full of bullets crashes through plates of glass in slow motion.
Berenger does his best, and he looks about right for the part, but when he aims for an emotion -- say, "guilt" -- it's like a hunting dog pointing at the pheasant. Rogers doesn't have much to do but look classy and she gets the job done. The most enjoyable performance is Lorraine Brocco's. She's an ex model and had little experience but she does a magnificent job. Watch the expressions on her face and on Berenger's when she discovers in the restaurant that her husband has been sleeping with his charge. Berenger doesn't really pull it off. She does. Nice casting too. Rogers has thin features and looks weaned on opera by Delibes, while Bracco has big blue eyes that are too close together, an enormous and absolutely straight nose, and an accent, that all add up to more than the sum of their parts.
The general plot involves a happily married police detective, Berenger, assigned as a body guard for the aristocratic Rogers, who is a witness to a gang killing, the perp being Andreas Katsulas, who is real MEAN and enjoys puncturing his victim multiple times with an ice pick, not to mention slashing an expensive painting.
You'll recognize Katsulas because he was also the one-armed killer in "The Fugitive." His hawk-nosed features and beetling brows are unforgettable. Of course, Berenger and Rogers get to know one another and wind up in bed, much to the distress of Berenger's wife, Lorraine Bracco, in her first prominent role.
What I'd expected was a routine cop shoot-out with an extravaganza of special effects, high speed pursuits, bath tubs of gore, and a middle interlude with the beefy Berenger and the mammous Rogers doing the beast with two backs in candle light on the other side of a pastel curtain. Complete schlock.
Instead, it's a sometimes nicely observed story of an ordinary bourgeois guy from Queens, whose taste runs to beer, joking around with his loving but savvy wife, and wearing paisley ties to fancy parties. God only knows what kind of music he prefers. He probably thinks Kenny G is semi-classical. Some fun is poked at the aristoi's taste but a cello piece by Bach is nice and good use is made of Gershwin's title tune.
The getting-to-know-you routine is improbably fast but in any case Rogers introduces him to champagne, so to speak. Berenger's flatfoot is awed by her multi-million-dollar digs, is embarrassed when her high-end girl friends tell him what a hunk he is, and is reluctant to drink "cocktails", as he calls them, while on duty and to let Rogers buy him a new tie -- but he finally yields, as we all yield sooner or later. I approved of the way the writers contrasted Berenger's cramped and noisy home with the sybaritic splendor of Rogers' quarters.
I also rather liked the relationship between the various cops who form the dramatic background. Berenger of course is violating the rules by banging the witness he's supposed to be protecting but when he turns up late at night for a tryst, during another cop's watch, there is no melodrama. The other cop simply gets to his feet and says, "Tell me I'm dreaming." When Berenger is first discovered by another cop, the exchange is equally brief. "What are you doing here?" "I'm screwed up, T.J." And it's done in LONG SHOT, not close ups of anguished faces.
Not that some of the usual clichés are avoided. They worked before, so let's use them again, right? One example: Bracco awakens alone at night. She's heard a creaking noise outside the house. She puts on her dressing gown, creeps down the darkened stairway, slowly approaches the window (while the violin strings are practically worn threadbare by suspenseful tremolos), puts her eye to a slit at the window sill, and . . . and . . . AND . . . BANG! A hand reaches out from off the screen and clutches her shoulder. It's her little boy, Tommy. Well, one more example. A body full of bullets crashes through plates of glass in slow motion.
Berenger does his best, and he looks about right for the part, but when he aims for an emotion -- say, "guilt" -- it's like a hunting dog pointing at the pheasant. Rogers doesn't have much to do but look classy and she gets the job done. The most enjoyable performance is Lorraine Brocco's. She's an ex model and had little experience but she does a magnificent job. Watch the expressions on her face and on Berenger's when she discovers in the restaurant that her husband has been sleeping with his charge. Berenger doesn't really pull it off. She does. Nice casting too. Rogers has thin features and looks weaned on opera by Delibes, while Bracco has big blue eyes that are too close together, an enormous and absolutely straight nose, and an accent, that all add up to more than the sum of their parts.