With the help of a talking freeway billboard, a wacky weatherman tries to win the heart of an English newspaper reporter, who is struggling to make sense of the strange world of early 1990s Los Angeles.
For a comical and critical look at self-absorbed people inhabiting the eponymous city, “L.A. Story” tries its best to make a case that would seem to be a slam dunk – that there’s plenty to analyze regarding lifestyles there. Unfortunately, the entire enterprise falls victim to an overeager, superficial effort that fails to fulfill on its promise.
The movie opens with Harris K. Telemacher (Steve Martin), late for work as always. He ignores the backed-up traffic ahead of him. Instead, he gamely diverts his vehicle off the freeway into neighborhood yards, viaducts, hillside passages on the outskirts of town – even through an extended pedestrian stairway sure to cripple any normal vehicle transmission. Oddly, no one seems surprised, or even upset.
Harris, we learn, is the Wiggy Weekend Weather Guy who incongruously wants to be taken seriously for his work. At yet, despite the sheer, bizarre wackiness of his weather reporting, the producer (an uncredited Woody Harrelson) thinks Telemacher’s schtick is still too cerebral for audiences. Sure, this is L.A., but seriously?
The biggest disappointment about the 30th-Anniversary release of “L.A. Story” is that it doesn’t hold up as well as one might have expected. The scenic landscapes that frame events, along with some well-placed and subtle digs at the locals, very quickly get overpowered by far too many other ludicrous scenarios that merely fall flat.
Consider the rites of spring as depicted in the movie. Harris celebrates the equinox by initiating a road rage shoot-out on the Santa Monica Freeway. These days, not so funny, but perhaps the idea seemed so during production three decades back.
Later, an overly smug maître d seats Harris, followed by a lot of insincere glad-handing with Harris’ many transactional acquaintances, all trading notes on topics of little importance – how best to check their look in the mirror, for example. In many ways, the movie touches on topics suitable for an extended episode of “Seinfeld” – often described as a show about nothing. “L.A. Story” overflows with hyperbole that seldom resonates.
The core of the film centers around the relationships between Harris, his girlfriend Trudi (Marilu Henner), a Brit named Sarah (Victoria Tennant), her ex-husband, Roland Mackey (Richard E. Grant), and SanDeE (Sarah Jessica Parker long before “Sex in the City”). At lunch, Harris takes an immediate interest in SanDeE, setting the stage for the remainder of the film.
In one of many displays of glib but not particularly humorous dialog, Sarah remarks that “I’m here to write a piece about L.A. for the London Times,” to which Harris responds, “Well, you’ve come to the right place.” That sort of cute phrasing probably looked good on paper in script format, but comes off as smug and uninteresting when actually spoken.
More of the one-liners wear out their welcome soon enough as well. Stung by the possibility that SanDeE is too young for Harris, he responds that “She’ll be 27 in four years.” Or, given the consistency of Southern California climate, he remarks that “Our next weather report will be in four days.”
Other eccentricities include slow-motion settings on the shower, an inflatable blood pressure monitor before breakfast, a toupee report based on wind gust forecasts, restaurants with eight-week waitlists – the list of strained attempts to needle Californians goes on endlessly to little effect.
Perhaps most iconic about “L.A. Story” – likely the scenes everyone remembers – is the flashing billboard, speaking directly to Harris. Confronting him repeatedly, the signpost offers sage advice to the rudderless weatherman, though even there, its words of wisdom ring surprisingly hollow by the closing credits.
Written by Mensa member Steve Martin, one might expect more from the quality of his social commentary. Instead, the barbs often land only in the general vicinity of their intended targets, dulling any worthwhile effect. Hyperactive direction by Mick Jackson strives to inject a sense of urgency that – like so many other aspects of the film – doesn’t seem warranted. At the end of the day, “L.A. Story,” released in 1991, simply feels like a 1980s movie that came out a few years too late.
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