



Having recently sat through a different effort by one of the heavyweights of 20th-century screenwriting, I was hesitant to dive into The In-Laws. The era, the setup—middle-aged dads pulled into spy games—it all felt like it might go stale fast. But within minutes, it had me. Why hadn’t I heard of this film sooner?
Peter Falk is either CIA or completely off his rocker, and the film is better for leaving it gloriously ambiguous. Alan Arkin, dragged along like the world’s most anxious labrador, is in his element—sweating, blinking, trying not to die in a vaguely defined Central American republic. The comedy hits that rare sweet spot: dry, daft, and escalating like a wedding toast gone rogue.
There’s a shootout, a car chase, a scene involving hand gestures and a firing squad that had me rewinding just to laugh again. And somehow, it all still has heart. Falk and Arkin are comedy yin and yang—chaos and control in matching pastel shirts.
A Cold War farce with actual warmth. Instant cult classic.
Amazing how poor this film is, given that Arkin & Falk are both brilliant in a lot of other material, but it creaks along predictably with sledgehammer humour.