Elder abuse or actor abuse, or both? Donald Sutherland is more ham here than Porky Pig, shamelessly overplaying the pitiful character of an oversexed businessman, far too busy caring about the escapades he's having underneath his Wurlitzer organ while his heartbroken wife, Lolita Davidovich, is busy right underneath it having a heart attack preparing to die. She comes back as her spirit, and he begins to fall in love with her all over again, while son Brendan Fraser, comes to terms with the fact that his mother's dead and dad wants him to remain around so they can go into business together building up a chain of cheap storage units.

The symbolism goes overboard (and so will the copy of this movie into my trash compacter) in a black comedy that has no reason for being. It's a waste of the talents of Sally Kellerman as an eccentric glamour queen acquaintance of Sutherland's and Linda Hunt as another local, as well as Julie Delpy as Fraser's love interest. I've never experienced such ugliness wrapped up with so many talents, and it's one of the few times where I absolutely despised everything about Sutherland as both his character and for his self-indulgent performance. This tries to be witty and original, but the result is completely insufferable. I never ever want to hear Sutherlajf sing again.