Six Days, Seven Nights
It's a boring bit of crap in which the two principals are complete opposites brought together only by a mutual sense of desperation and lack of respect for David Schwimmer.
Let's face it: Knowing what we all know about the personal lives of this film's cast, we're all wondering the same thing. As we watch lovebirds David Schwimmer and Anne Heche go off to an island paradise with Harrison Ford as their pilot, it's difficult to not speculate on what the casting director might have been smoking while assembling this improbable crew. Then Anne and Harrison crash in a remote island wilderness, fall in love and kiss and touch and the question becomes more apparent. Soon, it's impossible to watch Anne and Harry play tonsil hockey without actively squirming, obsessed by the increasingly obvious question which burrows like a tick into our brain: "WHO THE HELL IS RESPONSIBLE FOR PUTTING DAVID SCHWIMMER IN ANOTHER MOVIE?"
That's right, David Schwimmer is in another movie, although he's limited to a supporting role, which, these days, evidences the kind of restraint for which somebody deserves to be knighted. Schwimmer plays Frank Martin, fiancé to Robin Monroe (Anne Heche). Frank and Robin go off on vacation and are flown about the South Pacific by pilot Quinn Harris. When Robin, a magazine editor, is persuaded to go to Tahiti to oversee a photo shoot, Quinn takes her, but they crash on a deserted island and have an adventure which includes pirates and Harrison sticking his hand down Anne's pants.
The thing that most bothered me about this movie was the degree to which I began noticing how much David Schwimmer looks like a baboon. Really, look at the guy. He's got that long baboon nose. Once you take a good long look at his face, then mentally cut to a baboon, it's impossible to separate the two. If creationists watched "Friends," perhaps we could settle this evolution argument once and for all.
As for the movie, it's a boring bit of crap in which the two principals are complete opposites brought together only by a mutual sense of desperation and lack of respect for David Schwimmer. This sense of desperation seems especially desperate on the part of director Ivan Reitman, whose spark of originality couldn't ignite brittle tinder. What's more, the lack of respect for David Schwimmer is an aspect of this film that's left sorely underutilized. That's failure on a massive scale.
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