Let’s start a pool. How long do you think it will take before at least one disgruntled mate, supposedly inspired by seeing Goodbye, Lover, messily offs a sig-oth or two, and the victim’s survivors sue the movie’s producers for damages? Granted, nobody (that I know of) ever filed suit against the makers of Body Heat, but that was before lawyers discovered the Internet and Kathleen Turner sank to doing such tripe as Baby Geniuses. I’ll put five bucks on this June 14, Flag Day.
Anyway -- Goodbye, Lover is as least notable for being an odd assemblage. Directed by Roland Jaffe, who did one each of the best and worst films of the last 15 years (The Killing Fields and The Scarlet Letter); cowritten by Joel Coen and one of the writers of Toy Story; and featuring Don Johnson and Ellen DeGeneres, it certainly deserves notice for exemplifying the chaos school of moviemaking. And, speaking for all us unreformed Y-chromosomers, for marching Patricia Arquette around dressed variously like a very well-tanned nurse, Debbie Harry, and a fascist masseuse. She plays Sandra, an admirably motivated realtor obsessed with The Sound of Music, who sneaks successful p.r. exec Ben (Johnson) into the palatial houses of her opulent clients for clandestine, olympic sex. That’s when they’re not bangin’ the gong in the choir loft of the church where they both do volunteer work. (It’s a rich church, though, so it’s not like they’re working a soup line or anything; they mostly take up the collection and polish the candlesticks.) They, Ben’s brother Jake (Dermot Mulroney), and Ben’s secretary Peggy (Mary-Louise Parker) are entwined in myriad ways that, although not too surprising to any PBS “Mystery” fan, are twisted enough to warrant avoiding spoilers here. Suffice it to say, a bunch of people die in a variety of ways, several million dollars worth of insurance is involved, and it’s left to cynical, misanthropic, wise-ass detective Rita Pompano (DeGeneres) to try and sort things out.
If familiar, the twists are still -- pardon the expression -- well-executed, if muddled by the script’s overbearing, unsubtle references to God, Republicans, Mormons, and Julie Andrews, as well as, once again, much forced, clumsy swearing (and surprisingly flaccid innuendo and entendre). Helped by the fact that shapely actresses are a lot more common in Hollywood than lesbian detective, DeGeneres easily puts in the most entertaining appearance, Columbo without the warmth (although, like Murphy and Lawrence, she should also take care that her movie performances aren’t all simple variations on her standup delivery).
So, as long as you trust your partner won’t get any ideas, check it out. Goodbye, Lover is passable trashy diversion. But you might be wise to remember that the first part of William Congreve’s famous quote about Hell and “a woman scorned” goes, “Heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turned.” C+
© 1997 colorg@mindspring.com
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