Meet New York smootho Frank Flynn (Harmon). He's got a wonky grin, and his stylish saxaphone smurvling really makes the girlies wibble. He takes life as it comes y'know, so when he gets a free plane ticket from his long lost brother Charlie, he ups and offs without a qualm for the exotic island of Vanuatu in the South Pacific. When he gets there, however, he finds that Charlie is dead. There's the usual mysterious circumstances, and Frank becomes swiftly drawn into a tepid tale of colonial murder that aims at "high-action romance" and comes to rest at "irritating slop with an aeroplane sequence and a bit of snogging with the baddie's wife" instead.
Potential Indiana-style excitements like gold booty, plane crashes, tribal tom tom playing etc. are given the touch of lead by an appalling script and "made for TV" directing. Harmon comes fresh from the Bruce Willis School Of Irksome Grinning and Deborah Unger's is a part that even Patsy Kensit would turn down. Even the beauty of the setting becomes frustrating : you find yourself longing for an enlightening nature programme on the Vanata islands rather than the occasional patronsing view of local foot-stomping.
Pointless, annoying, and the sort of film that should never be viewed earlier than 3am or larger than 20 inches across, quite how Till There Was You escaped the straight-to-video mercy button will never be explained.