開頭他倆如此不對付，讓我非常好奇怎么成的夫妻。

女主看不上男主這很能理解，又摳門又拘謹不會說話。

結(jié)果男主電梯里把女主罵了一頓，女主覺得這人真是好單純好不做作，和那些妖艷賤貨的老頭子好不一樣。竟然還主動提出吃晚飯……

然后女主發(fā)現(xiàn)男主各種單純不做作的閃光點，然后一個不注意他倆就結(jié)婚了。

這個女主開心的點總在我覺得比較尷尬的地方，比如全體大廈的租客因為他的殺蟲劑嚷嚷起來的時候。

開始擔心他倆的孩子浸淫在這對夫妻的酒精里會不會腦殘……

男主脫衣舞跳的不錯

女主老爸也是心酸，眼看著孩子被酒鬼坑了

他倆真的總有奇特的共同笑點

他倆的女兒真是長得賊快，除了頭發(fā)看不出和他們有什么血緣的樣子

這部片子重點應(yīng)該是女主，看著她一步一步地被淪陷，到底是因為什么？愛？愛人？生活壓力？欲望？她在旅館里幽怨的樣子真是太慘了。

男主還是軟弱了些，拒絕妻子回家的那段話更像是自保，為了自己還能活下去，拒絕帶上當初被自己拖下水的妻子

Tackling alcoholism head on, DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES is an adaptation of J.P. Miller’s 1958 teleplay, and director Blake Edwards’ capacity of handling a simmering drama is put to test, and the result is quite propitious, unlike Billy Wilder’s excellent solitary toper misery in THE LOST WEEKEND (1945), here the situation is a classic case of folie à deux.

San Francisco PR agent Joe Clay (Lemmon) is a man of principles, yet he is often saddled with the seamy job of recruiting female companions for his company’s affluent clients. Under that premise, he first meets Kirsten Arnesen (Remick) and unceremoniously assumes that she belongs to the escort bracket, and only later to his discomfiture, realizes that she is a secretary, nonetheless doted by her affluent boss because of her prettiness.

Not so much a meet-cute as a romance precipitated by misapprehension, Edwards nimbly crafts an “elevator pitch” to sell a righteous Joe to a miffed Kirsten, who initially brushes aside his gesture of peace-making. To Joe’s obfuscated delight, after he lashes out on her for being too uppity to please and “secretary” is just a glorified designation for some gal with a pretty face , Kirsten takes an about-face and reconsiders the option of a date with him (talking about a girl’s illogical mutability), Joe’s “principles” finally convince Kirsten that he is the marry kind, they wed soon after and have a daughter, yet during their very first date, Joe has unwittingly sowed the seed of alcoholism to a hitherto teetotal Kirsten, which in time, will tear their family apart.

Every time before a snifter of hard liqueur goes down the hatch, Joe utters “magic time”, as if it is a mojo to invoke the liquor’s magical power to make him feel good, but that magical potion has severe sequelae, it destroys his career, put on a strain in his marriage and worst of all, indirectly pushes Kirsten down the same vicious circle of an inveterate heavy drinker, and she becomes an even worse case.

While the story tactfully soft-petals Joe’s incontrovertible responsibility as partially the scourge of Kirsten’s piteous self-abandonment (as Kirsten’s dour-looking father, Charles Bickford finally nerves himself up and gives Joe some piece of his own mind near the end, but that comes a shade too late), the script unavoidably smacks of sexism by granting Joe an ideal role model of an AA participant who finally gets the better of his jones, at the same time nudging Kirsten to the abyss of self-denial and diminishing willpower. This is the only gripe one can lay claim to the otherwise fairly outstanding script, probing strenuously and effectively to the nexus of the ubiquitous issue of alcohol dependency.

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, DoWaR boasts one of Lemmon’s most phenomenal performances, Lemmon wades through Joe’s journey with substantive lived-in commitment, running the gamut from gentlemanlike courtship, fanatical desperation to pathos-driven plead, not to mention the utterly visceral impersonation of delirium tremens when confined in a straitjacket, which can knock this reviewer dead stone cold. Remick, on the other hand, heftily retains her side of extraordinariness to limn Kirsten’s slippery slope with stern disillusion and inveterate helplessness, even though she is lumped with the short end of the stick in the dichotomous gender design. A cogent cautionary tale powered by two copacetic performers, and a slap on the Edwards’ back to his aptitude in orchestrating it in its finest order, not least for that bodacious final shot, a man and his anathema are superimposed in the same frame when a woman’s hope fizzles out despondently.

referential entries: Billy Wilder’s THE LOST WEEKEND (1945, 7.9/10)