Michael finds Nora Ephron again trying to duplicate the magic of Sleepless in Seattle, and John Travolta easing into comfortable bankability after Pulp Fiction rejuvenated his star status. Neither endeavor really works in this lukewarm film that asks for too much mileage from its one joke: that angels sometimes aren't very angelic. With his mane of Vinnie Barbarino hair, Travolta is a smug prankster who delivers pithy wisdom to his charges, all while having a rollicking good time in his temporary skin. This makes good use of the actor's essential playful decency, and it gives audiences another opportunity to see him strut his stuff on the dance floor, now sort of the Travolta inside joke after Saturday Night Fever and Fiction. But the very familiarity of it all makes it sort of insulting, giving Michael the feel of being on autopilot. Instead of offering the witty dialogue and relationship humor Ephron was once known for, she now proves herself to be merely a competent purveyor of hollow populist entertainment. In other words, there's no real reason audiences shouldn't have a limited fondness for this movie, but it is utterly undistinguished at the same time.