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If you read Errol Flynn's autobiography, My Wicked, Wicked Ways, you will see that this film is full of poetic licence. Not that that makes much of a difference, because Errol Flynn was pretty generous with poetic licence in the autobiography anyway. No need to worry about spoilers, since there is nothing there to spoil.
To me it would seem more sensible to use the story about a fictitious Hollywood actor; then you could go out and find a better actor than Duncan Regehr to play him, and you wouldn't have to worry about the audience saying things like: "But he didn't have a moustache in Captain Blood." Another failing of this film is that it shows Flynn as a two-dimensional character. Flynn was an intelligent man, well educated, well read. This film only concentrates on his funster image.
Regehr is a disaster. The rest of the cast struggle with their scripts. Hal Linden is OK as Warner, and Barbara Hershey makes a believable Damita, although Lili Damita herself did not think so.
The best thing to do with this film is to forget about it and let it gently slip away to oblivion. So what I am writing this for, I can't imagine.
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