Porter Stoddard is a well-known New York architect who is at a crossroads... a nexus where twists and turns lead to myriad missteps, some with his wife Ellie, others with longtime friends ...
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The US needs to convince the visiting emir Khala'ad of Othar to allow an American military base in his strategic realm. Clueless nightclub waitress Sunny Ann Davis accidentally spots and ... See full summary »
A marriage that seemed perfect comes crashing down after the death of Jack Saunders, husband of Adrienne Saunders. Strange developments begin to be discovered by Adrienne regarding Jack's ... See full summary »
Porter Stoddard is a well-known New York architect who is at a crossroads... a nexus where twists and turns lead to myriad missteps, some with his wife Ellie, others with longtime friends Mona and her husband Griffin. Deciding which direction to take often leads to unexpected encounters with hilarious consequences. Written by
Sarah Lean <Sarah.Lean@talk21.com>
Filming was completed in 1999, but the movie was not released until 2001. See more »
When Porter and Griffin are having lunch in the hotel the girl (who becomes Porter's first affair) is playing a double bass in the lobby. The soundtrack music, apart from being very obviously not synchronised with what she is playing, is a viola or possibly violin - definitely not a bass. See more »
Mother, I think you really have a problem.
You're damned right I have a problem. He won't do it to me anymore. Yes, his limp carrot is the root of all my problems. All my doctors tell me so. Every motherfucking one of them.
Fucking. Going upstairs.
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This thing was beyond crap, and I don't use that word often. I had heard it was bad, so I rented it for dud night, and called my sister to come watch it, because we need to bounce our comments off each other. Well, she left halfway through, vowing to watch Lord of The Rings, to try to cleanse her brain. I'm going to use a toilet brush on mine.
I should have known it wasn't an ordinary bad movie in the first scene. There's Grampa, aka Warren Beatty, sitting in a bed, trying to cover his wrinkled shoulders with the sheet. Talk about stomach-turning. That's the plot in a nutshell, old Warren pretending it's 1966 when swingers like him hopped on the nearest woman as regularly as they hopped on a plane.
Seriously, there is no plot. Every washed-up actor or actress in Hollywood is invited to drop by to make an ass of him (or her) self, including Charleton Heston, who must have already been in the grip of his recently-announced Alzheimer's Disease. I know rents are high in Los Angeles, but how badly do these people need money? And did any of them even get any? This stinker can't have made a nickel.
I can't summarize this mess because there was no rhyme or reason anywhere. I can't describe the wild over-acting, except to call it amateur night. All I can do is recommend that nobody, and I mean nobody, watch this thing. Don't inadvertently let your dog or cat see it. It's so bad you can't even make fun of it. That's how bad it is.
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