His commanding officer makes austere predictions regarding his upcoming potential career path, to which he responds with comic disillusion while preparing to gracefully disembark.
Fortunately, Christine isn't married and her friendly parents soon find him a job, which he awkwardly loses the very next day after glibly succumbing to clever contrivances.
The wondrous innocence so valued and extant, borderline literary imaginative distraction, still guides his random wanderings from one odd situation to the superfluous next.
A private detective, indeed why not?, it seems unorthodox and perhaps amusing, not dull like so many things anyways, with inherent variety steeping the stew.
Lacking natural gifts he embraces trial and error with novel credulity.
Unwittingly finding himself soon seduced.
By his only client's well-read wife.
Interesting to see an oblivious detective in charge of investigating a mid-life crisis, sombrely concocted by a sullen shoesalesperson exceedingly obsessed with why people don't like him.
It's a whole new branch of detective film where ye olde sleuths put psychiatrists out of business, as they venture forth with concrete shenanigans subjectively interpreted as something new.
Maladroit misgivings and incumbent thrift definitively queued on the existential barbie, it just progresses and mutates and engages as you become hooked on paying the bill.
Someone to talk to nevertheless about most people's favourite topic, themselves, people who are paid not to find you boring to the point where they invent constant mischievous conjecture.
Comic brilliance notwithstanding which I don't recall having seen anywhere else.
An endearing character.
Wholeheartedly beloved.
Precariously curious.
Symbolic literature.
