The problem with Michael Ritchie’s 1985 film “Fletch” is that it’s a perfectly good ’80s Chevy Chase action-comedy and a very bad adaptation of Gregory McDonald’s Edgar-award-winning mystery novel.
It’s a dichotomy that becomes clear if you’re one of the many, many ’80s kids (hello) who watched “Fletch” on video and HBO so many times we memorized it and then went to read the book – and its ten (ten!) follow-ups – and discovered they were something different altogether.
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