Chevy Chase may have the benefit of marking the second greatest strand of journalism (the first being first person columnist, the third being weird news writer), but that is not enough to make Fletch notable. No, Chase must go beyond what is expected of him and the arena of journalism too. Deadbeat journalists in search of not just a story but cash too are shown to display a great deal of respect for those that could give them a leg up. If it weren’t for the synth-heavy soundtrack and bleedingly poor 1980s comedic tropes sprouting up throughout then Fletch would have been a great vehicle for Chase.
Instead, it is fusty and dull and feels as though it was scored by Phil Collins if his only instruments were a drum machine and a synth recorder. They are cries for help and never stop scattering through the film. Every scene features some new routine of an underlying score. Is Chase not strong enough to stand on his own as a comedic lead without the need for sound cues? Apparently so. The material within isn’t all that strong anyway, so it is no wonder that Fletch relies on the sound bars and beats of the 1980s. Fletch rather immediately mistakes itself for a spy feature, rather than a film that could have relied on the biting aggressions of deadline stress or writers out for the best story possible.
So much wasted potential shouldn’t be a surprise, as Chase is frequently responsible for such mild-mannered and undercooked features. Pencil-pushing journalists exposed as tough nuts to crack are nothing special. The Front Page managed to show that with Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, two better comedians with stronger lines than those featured here. Zero Mostel and Woody Allen in The Front come off better than Chase in Fletch, who utilises the usual all-American buoyancy that comes across as loose and annoying rather than charming and comedic. Shot-reverse-shot simplicity and extended lull periods provide tiny sight gags and not much else. A shaking Chase asking for more coffee is as obvious a joke as it is a conclusion to a nothing scene.
That is what Fletch is, though. A collection of non-scenes that are both light on laughs and lighter still on story or direction. Understanding what makes Americans tick and roll in the aisles laughing is just as strange and alien as British comedy is to them. Fletch has a usual run-through of embarrassing encounters with a physician, misunderstandings and pratfalls frequenting the piece with as much care for the characters as there is for the comedy. Minimal at the best of times. Light on laughs and lighter still on the ludicrous amount of promise there is within. Where there could have been a scathing and hilarious criticism of how hack journalism works, there is nothing more than a puff piece for Chase to scour the scenery for another dose of leading man moments. Those moments are empty and shallow, unlike the remarkably scathing commentary made in another, earlier feature from director Michael Ritchie, The Candidate.
