The Museum of the Moving Image, as part of its monthly series “Queens on Screen,” will be hosting a revival of a comedy co-directed by Howard Franklin and Bill Murray, “Quick Change” (1990). Having established this particular program in 2020, MoMI has set out to highlight filmmakers who’ve made the borough a point of departure, up to and including “the Queens of the imagination … at a fanciful or dystopic slant.”

Those slants apply to “Quick Change,” though both adjectives feed into each other given the picture’s exaggerated mise en scène. Thirty-five years between then-and-now makes for a window through which we can gauge the changing character of New York City as well as the evolution of cultural mores. The mean streets of Queens are no longer quite as mean, nor are ethnic roles as broad as the gibbering, pan-Middle Eastern cab driver played by Tony Shalhoub.

Then again, future observers will likely have a field day mooting the ethnic, religious, and political pigeonholing that will identify the arts of the early 21st century. That, and Mr. Shalhoub has a lot of fun with his role, essentially hyperbolizing an already cartoonish archetype. The overriding archetype of “Quick Change” is, of course, New York City, here seen as an environment that is corrupt, brutish, and ugly. Mr. Murray’s character, Grimm, is eager to get out of the place.

There’s a lot to like in “Quick Change,” even if a filmgoer has to admit that there have been better pictures. Randy Edelman’s propulsive score has the patina of a golden oldie that you’d prefer never to hear again and the direction is, if not rudderless, then passable in workmanship. Is it true that Messrs. Murray and Franklin took on the job because Jonathan Demme was otherwise occupied and Ron Howard took a pass? Would that a sharper, more experienced hand had been behind the camera.

Laughter has a way of breaking down critical defenses, and it’s difficult to slight “Quick Change” without mentioning that it is consistently amusing and often laugh-out-loud funny. Mr. Murray’s patented deadpan is in fine fettle and carries the majority of the film, being particularly strong in its latter sections. It’s rare that a comedy gets funnier as it ambles toward the finish line.

We meet Mr. Murray’s character riding on the subway, wearing full clown regalia and holding a bouquet of helium-filled balloons. Once Grimm reaches his destination, a bank just a stone’s throw from Grand Central Terminal, he wedges an oversized clown shoe in the door, brandishes a gun, and proceeds to rob the place. Hostages are taken and led into the walk-in safe; among these is a hippie chick with a generous bosom and an electrician prone to hysteria. 

The former is Grimm’s paramour Phyllis (an effervescent Geena Davis); the latter, his childhood friend Loomis (Randy Quaid). The means by which these three manage to escape with a cool million is less comically rewarding than the ordeal our heroes suffer getting to JFK for their flight to distant climes. Forget the traffic, off-duty taxis, and the NYPD in hot pursuit; they also encounter mobsters, late night shoppers, and the most punctilious of bus drivers (Philip Bosco in a hilarious turn). When Grimm and company ultimately make it on the airplane, Phyllis goes missing and the flight is boarded by a relentless police chief, Walt Rotzinger (Jason Robards).

Do our heroes get away with it? The statute of limitations on spoiling a film surely doesn’t apply after three decades, but I confess to having been on tenterhooks during its final minutes. As for the denouement, it seems just about right for a film whose modest charms are done up right by all involved.