This is a really lousy movie. Somewhere buried in endless blather about life, love and hopping the next plane for Rome, there's a murder mystery involving a young girl whose body turns up on a strip of beach. The case is handled by Burt Reynolds, a Los Angeles detective whose amorata is French prostitute Catherine Deneuve. Most of his time is spent yakking with the victim's father, compulsive redneck Ben Johnson. Involved somehow is Eddie Albert as a Los Angeles politico who has arranged for a union headquarters in Ohio to be blown up for no discernible reason. By the time the talkathon ends, much of the cast has been rubbed out, largely to satisfy the production code of 1975. Yes, Deneuve is gorgeous and Reynolds wanders through the gabfest as if it actually made sense. But the real mystery here is how Steve Shagan's script went before the cameras without a slew of rewrites.