For the most part, "Michael" is a disaster ten minutes of charm and ninety's worth of missteps.
Travolta and MacDowell do their best, frequently rising above Nora Ephron's numbingly banal script. But the film moves like a snail. And even within its fantasy context, the characters behave implausibly on a regular basis. (Reporters who routinely let the story of a lifetime an apparent angel living on Earth out of their sight?)
Someone forgot to tell romantic comedy maestro Ephron that William Hurt, brilliant in so many other films, is no Tom Hanks. The movie's "climax" redefines the word contrived. Ephron may be shooting for Heaven here, but unfortunately "Michael" is a long, long ride through cinema heck.
Travolta and MacDowell do their best, frequently rising above Nora Ephron's numbingly banal script. But the film moves like a snail. And even within its fantasy context, the characters behave implausibly on a regular basis. (Reporters who routinely let the story of a lifetime an apparent angel living on Earth out of their sight?)
Someone forgot to tell romantic comedy maestro Ephron that William Hurt, brilliant in so many other films, is no Tom Hanks. The movie's "climax" redefines the word contrived. Ephron may be shooting for Heaven here, but unfortunately "Michael" is a long, long ride through cinema heck.