It’s not clear how long Bill Murray’s cantankerous weatherman spends living the same day. It could be a few months. Or, as director Harold Ramis suggested, it could be thousands of years. A smooth blend of the crowdpleasing and the unimaginably dark, it’s a nice movie about an asshole being de-assholed.
But its structure is also based on Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’ notion of the seven stages of death. It’s the kind of demon mainstream hit in which the stretch where our hero repeatedly kills himself — at one point waking up, grabbing the toaster from his quaint hotel kitchen, firing it up, hopping in the bathtub and dropping it in — is arguably the comedic highpoint. Keep your eyes peeled for the young Michael Shannon, as an excitable newlywed and WWF fanatic.