Although blessed with a stellar cast and a heavenly premise, Michael never takes flight. Rumor has it that the archangel Michael (Travolta) is living in a rundown Iowa hotel. Not the diaphanous, snowy-white being of countless paintings, Michael is impish, unshaven and paunchy, with a pair of sooty, bedraggled wings and an insatiable appetite for beer and sugar. Tracked down by three tabloid journalists (Hurt, MacDowell and Pastorelli), Michael agrees to be interviewed, but not until he has been driven to Chicago. Along the seemingly endless road trip, Michael reveals that this is his final trip to Earth. His last hurrah includes visiting wacky tourist sites (World's Largest Ball of Twine) and honky-tonking in a bar where his scent (like freshly baked cookies) lures women onto the dance floor. As the trip nears its end and Michael's energy begins to wane, his three companions discover their spirits renewed. Unfortunately, their characters are so underdeveloped that we don't feel the impact of their transformation. Even an angel's heavenly powers don't provide the miracle this film needs.
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