John Travolta's charismatic performance as a bad-boy angel straight from heaven is too good for Michael, Nora Ephron's tired retread of her own When Harry Met Sally. His presence is embarrassing, because it's clear that he's put 10 times as much thought into his role than has gone into the rest of the film. For example, is it possible to take a movie seriously that stoops to having a tiny dog hit by a huge truck—presumably a medium-sized dog getting hit by a Honda wouldn't have the same effect—in an attempt to garner our sympathy? To save you some trouble: The dog lives. William Hurt mopes while Andie MacDowell composes bad country songs. They fall in love. Everyone lives happily ever after. John Travolta should realize that people appreciate him, maybe more than ever, but that he should start making movies people won't feel ashamed for having seen if he wants to avoid co-starring with a talking lemur in the future.