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What bothers me about Confess, Fletch is that no major studio will make another movie like it ever again even though it’s a good and sturdy piece of work that pleased whatever audience found it. It’s a clever and charismatic and seductively sleepy piece of work that makes you feel like life is fine while you’re watching it, so it’s exactly the naptime-adjacent cable TV classic its makers were aiming for. It lives and breathes the scruffy, amiable, and smart unambitiousness of its hero.

There’s no way to make that kind of movie anymore unless some benevolent dads like Mottola and Hamm cough up a bunch of cash and give us another one for free. I really hope they get to do it again, but I already appreciate their largesse in paying for this one. It’s a remarkably uncynical movie, and their lowkey and well-earned pride shines off the screen.

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Here, here.

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