You don't have to be a fan clubber to love Elliott Gould, but it helps when, as in Move, his talent is swaddled in mediocrity. Laboring under Stuart Rosenberg's incomprehensible direction, Gould strives to leaven a sodden lump of a movie. His role is that contemporary stereotype, the creative Manhattanite who thinks himself into a granny knot. However fascinating Gould's mumblings and stumblings may be, they are scarcely enough to sustain 90 minutes of pointless celluloid.
Hiram Jaffe (Gould) walks dogs in Central Park by day and writes skin books by night. All the...
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