Shakespeare would have had a fine time with Sigourney Weaver: creating Viola and Beatrice with her in mind, collaborating with her on the odd comic masterpiece, vagabonding through London in some very comely company. Shaw would have been smitten by her combination of regal beauty and irreverent wit, of life force and light farce. The old Hollywood masters of penthouse comedy would have embraced this screwball Garbo, alive and kicking up her heels.
But this is 1986, when women on screen have been liberated from goddess-hood and turned into grunts. So Sigourney Weaver -- actor, playwright, bonne vivante, gun-control activist and,...