Sometimes you watch a movie that leaves you wondering both "huh?" and "does the guy who supplied the coke get a credit for this production?"
But the thing is, by the time you've gotten past the bizarrely inconsequential renaissance opening, the Mario Brothers shit, the wow-I-guess-Baby-Driver-just-straight-ripped-Hudson-Hawk heist, Andie MacDowell's frizzy hair, Richard E Grant and Sandra Bernhard just absolutely killing it as two cartoony psychos, and My Man Flint as god knows who living it up in Italy, like, you can't even fault this intensely bizarre mess of a perfect Hollywood blockbuster wannabe. I wish more big movies were this bizarre, building up a near-reality but with more cartoon thugs, stick on bombs, car over cliff explosions and ricochet bullets.
I choose to believe the moral of this movie is that traveling to Italy and finding the perfect cappuccino is and will always be superior to sex. You know, RELATABLE everyman strife shit.