XYZ, PDQ

COMBINING THE TALENTS of Dudley Moore and Mary Steenburgen with those of veteran director Arthur Hiller would seem to promise, if not quite the "very different love story" described by the director, at least an effervescent romp in the style of Arthur. Unfortunately, neither Moore's broguish charm nor Steenburgen's poignant spaciness can save Romantic Comedy from its writer and director. Rather, the actors' valiant attempts to save the show make it all the more perturbing to watch. Observing cast members with their flies inadvertently unzipped for an hour and a half would, in fact, provide a comparable level of both romance and comedy.

In Dudley Moore's case, biology would seem to be approaching destiny. Staggering on the heels of Peter O'Toole in My Favorite Year and The Stuntman, he plays the infinitely lovable, brutally sarcastic megalomaniac whose heart of gold is barely outlasting his liver. It's the Irish role, and we've seen it oh so many times before. Here, he portrays Jason Carmichael, "a witty, talented, acerbic, sarcastic, but always charming" and highly successful New York playwright. The day of his wedding to a glamorous socialite (Janet Eilber) also marks the beginning of a literary collaboration cum romantic entanglement with an aspiring young writer called Phoebe Craddock. Schoolmarmish, sweet, and socially inept, she has no trouble capturing the hearts of Jason, Mrs. Carmichael, their two children and a journalistic superstar called Leo (played with apparent reluctance by Ron Leibman).

Considering the script, Steenburgen's portrayal of Phoebe is an impeccable one. Unfortunately, this does not make her a viable romantic focus. All smiles, playing with ducks and little children, helping Jason's pregnant wife do her exercises, or just staring, wide-eyed, at Jason, she is about as engaging as a Hallmark card. Although Steenburgen does try, there's no room for the pizzazz of her Oscar-winning portrayal of the long-suffering wife in Melvin and Howard here.

Another notably-assassinated character is Allison, Jason's attractive, ambitious wife. Had she not been burdened with Eilbert's wooden acting or lines like "I am not jealous of Phoebe--I am jealous of the ongoing love-affair the two of you have with the theatre," she might have provided the movie with a sorely-needed foil.

THE MOST OBVIOUS problem throughout is the dialogue. Everyone sounds remarkably alike; in fact, everyone sounds as if he had spent the last month studying what lovers say in Ladies' Home Journal stories. What is more, it seems incredible for a group this consistently in eloquent to be enjoying high-flying literary careers. A case in point: Jason meets Leo, a reporter who has been spending his time "just hanging around." "I hear you're an expert on Russia," Jason says. "Dah. I speak the lingo," comes the reply. A little later, Leo--after weeks of puppy-eyed stares at Phoebe --confesses he has written a feature story about her simply in order to see her. She stares at him--"Why!" -another blank "Because I want to marry you." Silence, more stares. "It'll take me a little while to absorb that." A long, lugubrious stare: "Absorbed it yet?" Etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum.

During the latter scene, Phoebe is wearing a pair of shapeless sweat-pants, child's baseball cap in bright blue and a particularly loud sweater. The movie does no better with comedy than with romance--scenes that are not maudlin tend to be pathetic. There is a pronounced effort to make the cast look as unappealing as possible, presumably to add a comic touch and to scoff convention. "Who does your wardrobe, Quasimodo?" Jason asks Phoebe in one of his lucid moments.

Altogether, Romantic Comedy boasts some of the least appealing love scenes ever. Erotic ineptitude provides the grounds for a break-up--when Jason and Phoebe get together for the happy end, the camera lingers, then fades out on the couple who seem to be maiming each other on a couch. The sight is pathetic rather than funny. For this film a "Prohibited" rather than a "Restricted" rating would seem appropriate.