The In-Laws
It was fifteen minutes into The In-Laws that I suspected an uncanny feeling of déjà vu, and thirty minutes in that I confirmed my suspicions with an unlocked memory of having watched it somewhere between ten and fifteen years ago, in a context I cannot recall beyond mild insobriety. With this revelation, the remainder of the plot — already formulaic and predictable — snapped into place, and I was left with wackiness and some sensible chuckle humor that I can admire without loving. This Blazing Saddles-esque style of broad comedy, which leans into action to punctuate and yet ends up deflating, is simply not for me.
And I mean that sincerely. There's a lot about the film that I admire. First and foremost, the commitment to the bit that Peter Falk showcases: his dogged aloofness works in a compounding way, especially in comparison to Alan Arkin's self-serious nice — a contrast that had nonetheless grown threadbare and overdone somewhere in the film's second act. The schtick of the film feels more well-suited for a longer-runtime SNL sketch than an actual film, and the script's necessity to lampshade every single joke (the Bay of Pigs gag, to pick one) is the closest I can come to a sincere and critical critique.
This and Murder by Death make two films in a row that I didn't really enjoy despite loving their usage of Peter Falk — which is perhaps a sign that I should just start watching Columbo instead.