You know it's a legal flick because of the title -- but you know it's a thriller because the "V" in Evidence dips down like a giant blade. Yoiks!
Sadly, all the thrills to be had in Physical Evidence are found on its cover. Put simply, it's one of the lamest and least compelling courtroom dramas ever to hit the screen. Burt Reynolds (as the ultimately stereotyped retired, alcoholic cop) is only half the problem. It's author Michael Crichton, directing would would be his last film (at least up to now), who obviously saw reason to throw in the towel after this nightmare.
I shouldn't say nightmare. Most of you will probably sleep pretty soundly through the film. Little happens, after all. When poor Burt gets arrested for piano-wiring a man to death -- he's caught on tape threatening his life only two days prior -- his lawyer (Theresa Russell, in what may be her only "good girl" role, ever) fights like hell to get him off. But maybe he's guilty. Or not. It's gonna take some serious lawyerin' to get to the bottom of this one!
In the end, it doesn't matter who's guilty. Reynolds' cop is so unlikeable and wholly unintersting we couldn't care less whether or not we did it. Russell fares no better, her hair up in a prissy pull-back getup that belies her natural ability as an on-screen megabitch. This movie even has Ted McGinley in it, for Pete's sake!
Sadly, the best moment is actually over in the first five minutes, when a would-be suicide discovers the corpse in question, only to find the two of them later dangling from a bridge via a noose hooked to his leg. Physical Evidence, indeed.