(George Bloomfield, 1980)
This movie is like Stephane Dion: it's kinda nice that he's on your side, except then you're stuck with him. You want to appreciate the nods towards consciousness in re seal hunts and militarism and land claims. But not only are the specifics muzzy to the point of embarrassment (the film locates the "Manitoba Indian" band in the Alaska panhandle), it's all kept at a severely remote geographical and spiritual distance from the cute escapades of professor and lawyer romping from library to bed to car chase to car chase to car chase. With Sam Arkoff looking over his shoulder, Bloomfield does keep things moving, Suzanne Somers could definitely be worse, and as always Donald Sutherland ambles through his contrived rom-com paces like a duck in water. But that same casualness does no favours at all to the big Frank Capra anticorporate speech at the end; the filmmakers literally look away in embarrassment as Sutherland mumbles his barely coherent indictment. And let's not even get into his insights re the failings of women's liberation. Keep an eagle eye out for most of the cast of SCTV - Bloomfield's old stomping grounds - on screen for about three seconds each.