(Rex Bromfield, 1987)
A fusion of amiable and sick humour modes, or should I say a fusion of British and American humour modes; how Canadian. It's never in a hurry, shambolic and measured, but it keeps veering between cute old men muttering non sequiturs and drunk biddies strapping dynamite to their legs. In either mode, the sporadic payoffs are damnably mild; I laughed out loud precisely once, when the rich old guy makes his prison bed. Still, the direction is assured in its imperfection, the performers are fully on, and only rarely does a gag overstay its welcome (that means you, nun; that means you, "banana"). Unfortunately, the delicate balance between modes keeps getting torn asunder by an aggressively charmless, bellicose display in the central gold-digger role. In a part that could have carried the movie with a little finesse, she drags it down instead. Why on earth might director Rex Bromfield have allowed actress Valri Bromfield to be so woefully miscast in this role? Hmmmmmm.