Sort of an After Hours for the undiscerning, where this time Griffin Dunne is stuck spending an entire day of hell with bleached-blonde, airhead Madonna, playing herself, right? It's either that, or she's *gosh* acting. Kudos to whoever finally realized audiences don't want to watch her as a foil. Who's That Girl coasts on its cheeseball eighties charm, supported by an actual director in James Foley, who understands how to suggest character evolution visually. You could do a lot worse than this film in THAT decade, ultimately landing somewhere on the spectrum between good film and guilty pleasure.