Recensioni di Metacritic

They All Laughed, Peter Bogdanovich’s quiet romantic comedy about two Manhattan detectives (Gazzara, Ritter) following, and falling for, their subjects (Hepburn, Stratten), was unfairly overshadowed when Stratten, in 1980 (after filming had wrapped), was murdered by her estranged husband.

They All Laughed is certainly not a perfect film, but its homespun quality, palpable camaraderie, and playfully loose performances make for a movie that’s easy to harbor deep affection for nonetheless.

Rarely does a film come along featuring such an extensive array of attractive characters with whom it is simply a pleasure to spend two hours.

Supposedly created as a showcase for Stratten (whose tragic death cast a pall over the film’s release), the picture instead offers a splendid ensemble, from Gazarra’s world-weary suavity and Ritter’s slapstick acuity to Hepburn’s autumnal grace and, above all, Colleen Camp’s marvelous blend of abrasion and snap. Indeed, the actress embodies the garrulous yet vulnerable charm of They All Laughed, which, for all the Hawksian ping-pong of the dialogue, is closer to the melodic élan of a Jacques Demy film, as wistful and fragile as a sand castle.

For all its delightful performances, savvy location shooting, and breezy charm, They All Laughed is ultimately something of a tantalizing tease, all flirtation and no consummation.

Breezy and carefree, THEY ALL LAUGHED suffers from a weak, hard-to-grasp structure. As lovable as the characters and their situations are, one is never quite sure where the film is leading.

The impressive presences of Audrey Hepburn and Ben Gazzara help just a little. Otherwise, it's a hollow and very minor affair. [31 Dec 1981, p.23]

Bogdanovich, a cold director drawn to sentimental material, doesn’t have the warmth to bring it off, and his wobbly control of tone keeps leading the physical comedy into pain and humiliation, the romance into prurience, and the wit into the realm of the sour and shrill.

There are occasional glimmers of what might have been in the fresh performances of the actresses. But it plods where it should sparkle, like a celebration where the champagne's gone flat.

It's aggressive in its ineptitude. It grates on the nerves like a 78 rpm record played at 33 rpm.