‘Fletch Lives’ By Rita Kempley Washington Post Staff Writer March 17, 1989

Director: Michael Ritchie Cast: Chevy Chase; Cleavon Little; Hal Holbrook; Julianne Phillips; Richard Libertini; Randall Parental guidance suggested

While there was no reason to think otherwise, "Fletch Lives." Yes, the wisenheimer of the whodunits, the smarty-pants of sleuthdom, the class clown of clues, makes a snappy comeback in this superior sequel to the deliciously tasteless 1985 adventure. Reprising the role, Chevy Chase is reliably irreverent as the tangle-footed, many-monikered reporter.

The opening moments find Fletch, a master of disguise, posing as a hotel maid to nail down a story on some fishy California Mafioso. When his editor ix-nays the cost of leg waxing on his expense account, Fletch resigns and goes off to "raise chitlins" on a plantation he has inherited from a long-lost Louisiana aunt. But fantasies of sipping mint juleps and seeing up hoop skirts give way to the realities of a crumbling 80-acre estate, for which a mystery buyer bids an unheard-of $250,000.

When Fletch refuses the offer, he is framed for the murder of the estate's executor, a lovely lawyer found dead after bedding the pasty-faced hero. (But he makes her laugh.) "It was good, but not that good," Fletch observes. Known for his delicate sense of irony he is not.

Fletch is a vulgar, oblivious chauvinist, a sleuth burlesque obsessed with "getting into the pants" of the female cast. Becky Culpepper's pants prove most alluring. But this fetching Realtor, played by Julianne Phillips, is in league with Jimmy Lee Farnsworth (R. Lee Ermey), a predatory televangelist who covets Fletch's land. With a pair of horse teeth, Fletch disguises himself as a faith healer and infiltrates Farnsworth's fundamentalist theme park, Bible Land.

Full of self-righteousness, the moviemakers take their potshots at the false prophets of the faithful couch 'taters, as well as the antebellum-brained denizens of this Louisiana backwater. When the Klan comes to call, Fletch simply gets his own sheet and joins the inept night riders. The crosses won't light and most of the new members are inexperienced, laments the grand wizard. "We call 'em Klukies," says Fletch, who is pretending to be a visiting white supremacist from Kukamonga. Screenwriter Leon Capetanos and director Michael Ritchie sho nuff make some dubious choices. There's Cleavon Little doing the Hollywood shuffle as Calculus, a loyal manservant who worked for Fletch's late aunt and stays on to serve the shamus. Calculus is so ridiculously overdrawn that we do suspect that Little is putting us on, that there's a higher purpose in this Amos 'n' Andyishness. There is, however, no excuse for a coon hunt joke, which finds amusement in Fletch's confusion over whether he's meant to hunt blacks or raccoons.

These questionable choices blight this otherwise enjoyable series of Billy Joe Bob jokes and Chevy Chase scenes. Chase may be 12 years past Prime Time, but the 45-year-old pratfaller has never been better. He and Fletch were made for each other as surely as Kojak and Tootsie Pops.

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