Scenes from a Marriage

Erland Josephson and Liv Ullmann

In certain cases, I have reserved a few works of art to contemplate in my dotage. I just read Proust for the first time and was underwhelmed. He reminded me of Virginia Woolf in his self-absorption. There are always a few Dorothy Dunnett and Tom Sharpe novels that I am saving for my deathbed because I love their prose so. Scenes from a Marriage was in this category partially because I am a recovering Bergmaniac. When the shortened film version was released in the US in 1974, I was deep in the throes of my adoration of the Swedish Ubermensch. I grew up in Baltimore where we were able to receive Washington D. C. stations if we pointed the rabbit eared antenna a certain way. WETA ran a series of Bergman films from the Janus collection with commentary from the young Roger Ebert and I was hooked. I was able to see everything from Summer with Monika through Winter Light as a teen and it helped me glom onto cinema as an art form. Scenes from a Marriage had gotten huzzahs from the American critics, but, being the contrary budding aesthete I was, I vowed to wait and view the real deal.

It was worth the wait. The six part (or scenes), 297 minute 1973 television series has a breadth of vision that eclipses the film version which omits two hours of footage. The length of the series opens up our understanding of Marianne (Liv Ullmann) and Johan (Erland Josephson), the married and then divorced but always a couple the film chronicles. The series was filmed in color by Sven Nykvist, but the baroque expressionism of Cries and Whispers (an alleged masterpiece I find over wrought) has been discarded. Scenes from a Marriage recalls The Rite, also lensed by Nykvist, in that it is a chamber play, almost entirely shot in interiors. What exteriors that exist in the series usually show the characters tearing around the countryside in a Volvo. They are usually there for a reason, though. Bergman repeats a shot of a parked vehicle at the couple's summer cottage to express what has been lost in the passage of time.  The first instance is when Johan is telling Marianne that he is leaving her. The second is when the couple, now divorced and married to unseen others, arrive at the cottage to rekindle their romance. They are able to do so, but only by leaving that cottage and escaping the ghosts of the past.

The majority of the series focuses on interior duologues between Johan and Marianne. These scenes start out in long shot, establishing the perimeter of the field of marital combat, but they always end in tight close-ups. Sometimes of someone in anguish, usually Marianne, but more often with the couple having found a rapprochement, cuddling. There are a lot enormous close-ups, like the one above, of the couple together as a unit, her yin to his yang as it were. Johan is the rational male side, more self centered and sarcastic. Marianne is the masochistic female empath. As has been pointed out, Bergman's sympathies lie with the distaff side even though Josephson's character, as in After the Rehearsal, can be looked at as a Bergman stand-in. However, I detect glimpses of hope within the usual Bergman battle of the sexes. We get plenty of the hell is other people schtick, particularly in the dinner party with Bibi Andersson and Jan Malmsjo, and Ibsen and Strindberg get the usual shout-outs, but the protagonists display personal growth. Johan becomes a little more empathic or "softer" as Marianne puts it and Marianne becomes more independent and sure of herself.

Ms. Ullmann's performance is one of the greatest of the last century, but the care and the skill of the other performers is not far behind. Wench Foss, Norwegian like Ms. Ullmann, is especially memorable as Marianne's mother in a scene snipped from the film version. The scene, in which Marianne blithely tells her mother that she will not be attending her father's interment, is a signpost of Marianne liberating herself from the rituals and unspoken rules of the previous generation. Liberation is not a concept generally found in the claustrophobic world of Herr Bergman, but it is there in Scenes from a Marriage.

Virginia City

Guinn Williams, Alan Hale Sr., and Errol Flynn

Michael Curtiz's Virginia City is an amiable enough Errol Flynn vehicle, but it is also the least interesting Flynn/Curtiz collaboration Warner Brothers released in 1940, the others being Santa Fe Trail and The Sea Hawk. Flynn is a Yankee Captain during the Civil War who we first view attempting to break out of the infamous Libby prison in Richmond. The commandant of that prison is Randolph Scott who is improbably roped into a plot, by dancehall gal/spy Mildred Hopkins, to move five million dollars in gold from the titular town east in order to prop up a tottering Confederacy. After busting out of the hoosegow, Flynn is tabbed to thwart the rebel plan. A troupe of banditos, headed by a mustachioed Humphrey Bogart, lurks on the periphery threatening mischief at every step.

I'm not referring to the characters in this picture because they hardly exist. The flick has a cobbled together feel with various writers contributing different elements to the formulaic stew. There is a pinch of Gone With The Wind and more than a dollop of Stagecoach. Flynn gets to display his good natured dash, but other familiar elements lack brio. Guinn Williams and Alan Hale are along to provide comic relief as Flynn's cohorts, but the material they are given is feeble. Curtiz's gifts did not include comic raffishness. His exterior scenes lack the dynamism and thematic integration employed by Walsh and Ford, though the scenic vistas, mostly in Arizona, are gorgeous. The most memorable sequences are interior: the Sazerac dancehall where Ms. Hopkins plies her trades and the opening sequences inside and below Libby prison.

Humphrey Bogart

The weakest and most embarrassing element of the film is Bogart's performance as a Mexican bad man. It is among the more ludicrous miscastings in Hollywood history, right up there with Bogart's turn as a vampire in The Return of Doctor X, but it belies the fact that Bogie had not reached the status of an A player, yet. It did not have to be since Bogart was playing a real figure, the outlaw John Murrell, who was, in fact, not a Mexican. Of course, the real Murell died in 1844, but Virginia City is not encumbered by historic fact. I rolled my eyes when a Virginia City town crier announces the simultaneous fall of Southern strongholds Vicksburg and Atlanta; events that were separated by some fourteen months. What is more objectionable than the picture's slipshod treatment of history is its even-handedness to the Union and Rebel cause; a sop to the Southern box-office. Flynn and Scott are both honorable dudes who are just staying true to their cause. Slavery is unmentioned. The ulterior motive for this is that, two years before Pearl Harbor, Hollywood wanted to play down partisan and regional divisions in the US to cement the unity needed to combat the Axis menace.

There are some things I like about the flick. Hopkins and Scott were both Southerners and their accents are nicely relaxed. Compare them to Ward Bond who appears as a Confederate soldier early on. Bond's efforts aren't bad, but pales besides the real things. The songs Hopkins is saddled with are weak, even Dietrich would have flailed with them, but she is a trouper. I kind of like Flynn putting the moves on an older woman for once instead of jailbait like Olivia de Havilland, as was his wont in his surreal life.

Cold Storage

Georgina Campbell and Joe Keery

Jonny Campbell's Cold Storage is a blend of comedy and horror that failed to ignite at the box-office when it was released in the US in February. With loads of goofy gore, it is an amiable formula film that will not stick in one's mind's eye for long. David Koepp's screenplay posits that a chunk of Skylab containing an invasive and toxic fungus dropped to Earth in Kansas and has been sequestered by the government ever since. However, the Feds dropped the ball and the deadly fungus bunker in now a public storage facility whose security staff includes Cold Storage's two leads, Joe Keery and Georgina Campbell. While they hide from creatures affected by the green goo, two retired guv'ment agents ride to the rescue. 

That these parts are played by Liam Neeson and Lesley Manville belies the saving grace of this unpretentious little film: superior acting. The timing and nuance of the crack cast lift this just above standard fare. Best in show is Vanessa Redgrave whose extended cameo shows that the old gal has still got it. Based on her recent credits, Georgina Campbell is a real comer. That she can play a character ten years younger than herself here is a triumph of acting rather than make-up. Joe Keery kind of bugs me. He overdoes the wrong side of the tracks schtick here, but he is more than competent with his movements and timing. I guess I think he is more of a Jughead than an Archie. 

Mr. Campbell has primarily worked in television. He is a Brit and I guess that explains the preponderance of thesps from the UK in the cast. He works well with the ensemble, but seems not to be a distinctive visual stylist. Believers in the auteur theory of screenwriting should note that Mr. Koepp recycled the satellite surveillance trope from Cold Storage in the Black Box script. 

Fearless Frank

Good titles, bad movie

There is not much written about Philip Kaufman's Fearless Frank because there is not much to write about. It is a feeble superhero parody that might have made a good fifteen minute Second City comedy troupe skit, but becomes tedious when expanded to the length of a feature flim. Kaufman adds Felliniesque digressions and vaguely narcotic curlicues as padding. Kaufman partisans would just as soon forget about the film, but since I've never championed his work, I will admit that I got a few laughs out of it; more than I laughed at After the Fox or The Producers.

The main reason for the laughs is the topnotch cast who tower over the thin material. A good chunk of the cast came from Chicago's aforementioned Second City. Second City's Severn Darden and Anthony Holland were in Kaufman's first film, Goldstein, and return for Fearless Frank. Fellow comic troupers Joan Darling and David Steinberg joins them for this one. All four would soon be familiar faces in Hollywood films and television. Jon Voight is the titular Frank, who is reanimated by mad scientist Darden into a superhero. All the leads do what they can with much scenery chewing and mugging. Nelson Algren, who also acted in Goldstein, appears as one of the bad guy's henchmen with the sobriquet, "Needles"; a tribute to Algren's The Man with the Golden Arm. Monique van Vooren appears as eye candy and Frank's dream girl, another character aptly named: Plethora. Cult musical figure Ken Nordine delivers droll narration.

Jon Voight

As one can surmise from this plot summary, Kaufman is borrowing a little from Mary Shelley, but the primary source of this parody is the then popular Batman TV series. This is most obvious when Kaufman punctuates Voight's defloration of Ms. Darling with mod titles of "Wham" and "Pow", but, alas, there is no "Biff". However, it is hard to parody something that already verged on self-parody. The film was first shown at Cannes in 1967 and, unsurprisingly attracted no interest. It was eventually released on a double bill with an obscure Dustin Hoffman B picture after the success of Midnight Cowboy in 1969. Kaufman got a deal with Universal Pictures which eventually released his next picture, the far superior Western, The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid. Fearless Frank, at times looks good enough to be a Hollywood feature, but in some sequences, like a superimposed Frank flying over Chicago, it is strictly amateur hour. Kaufman never really evolved into a first rate visual stylist, but his next film would show a quantum leap. Too much of Fearless Frank's widescreen frame contains wasted negative space, meaningless visual clutter that distracts from the players.

I also feel the sophisticated Europhile Kaufman had a rather leaden feel for comedy. There are some amusing bits in ...Northfield and Invasion of the Body Snatchers, but he totally muffed Tom Wolfe's satiric jabs at Americana and the space program in The Right Stuff. I find that highly lauded film and his acclaimed The Unbearable Lightness of Being, to be gaseous, over long bores. I do like The Great Northfield Minnesota Raid, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Henry and June, and Quills. The White Dawn and The Wanderers are watchable and the rest is dross; including Fearless Frank.

Resident Evil

Austin Abrams 

Zach Cregger's Resident Evil is a deserved hit with both the critics and the public. The youngsters and gamers seem to like it. My ticket taker gushed that "it was by far the best in the series even if it didn't have Mila." The audience was young and entranced by the sheer gallop of this genre exercise par excellence. I was worried after the polyphonic breakthrough of Weapons that Resident Evil would be monophonic in its adherence to the project's gaming heritage, but it is more than a rollercoaster ride. It is agitatedly, but rewardingly monophonic in following the adventures of dispatch delivery agent Bryan (Austin Abrams) as he encounters carnivorous alien creatures while he tries to deliver the film's MacGuffin to a lab. It does not end happily, but the film's themes are suited to the rat in a maze structure. Cregger leavens the material with sick humor which the cast delivers sublimely.

Some have objected to the prevalent visual schema of slime, often toxic, that fills the screen during the last act. This is silly because the film's sense of horror is that of human putrefaction. The hero, a modern Ichabod Crane, is trying desperately to outrun the onslaught of mortality. The unease of COVID and whatever the heck happened in Russia pervades the air. What mysterious strain will cause us to putrefy? Thankfully, Austin Abrams gives a sly, visually elastic performance that brings out the absurdity of Bryan's plight. The supporting players whizz by before getting slimed. I was most amused by the efforts of Paul Walter Hauser and Zach Cherry. 

I was reminded of a similar genre exercise that traded off then current fears, Spielberg's Duel. The villain stalking Dennis Weaver is a kin to the good old boys that shot up Captain America and Billy in Easy Rider. The villain of Resident Evil is harder to pin down, something more mysterious in the air. Guns and rifles of many varieties do seem easy to find in this film's version of America. It posits that if life is a First-person shooter game then, soon, we will all be dead.

This is for Carla, a horror aficionado and connoisseur of onscreen putrefaction.

The Devil's Bride

Groovy!

Arunas Zebriunas' dotty film The Devil's Bride is a Lithuanian rock opera released in 1974. Mr Zebrunas was assisted in constructing this slice of counterculture kitsch by composer Vyacheslav Ganelin and poet Sigitas Geda who penned the libretto. The plot is loosely based on the folklore fantasy novel Whitehorn's Windmill by Kazys Boruta. The good people at Deaf Crocodile have released this film on a beautiful disc which contains a host of extras in addition to the 76 minute feature. Ten minutes into this picture, you'll feel as if someone has given you a few shots of mead and a dark rye crust with ergot clusters. 

An agent of the dark lord spreads mischief amongst the inhabitants of a lakeside village. Men sell their souls and brides are left waiting at the altar. The thorough composed score drives the frenetic, cartoon like action. The film hurtles along. If you don't like one tune, here comes another. The tone is akin that of Ken Russell in this period, if Mr. Russell had liked people. The invocation of national myth, Catholic imagery, and pagan folklore stands as a finger in the eye of staid, godless Communism.

As with most rock operas, the score for The Devil's Bride is not rock and roll, but a listenable mishmash. Because of his background in jazz, I'd group Mr. Ganelin with jazz composers who went all in on baroque pop when the commercial opportunity arose, like John Barry, Quincy Jones, and Burt Bacharach. Ganelin injects some fuzz-tone guitar whenever Satan's minions cut loose with orgiastic impishness, but he can't compose around an electric guitar like Morricone. The Devil's Bride is much more engaging than such visual atrocities as Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell. And don't get me started about the 1973 Lost Horizon, an all time turkey that put the kibosh to the Bacharach/ David partnership. It was a bad era for musicals, rock opera or not, The Devil's Bride is colorful and kooky fun. The flick is currently streaming on Tubi.

The Love That Remains

Saga Garoarsdóttir

Hlynur Pálmason's The Love That Remains strikes me as one of the more original and impressive pictures I've seen this year. The film repeats the man as a single grain of sand vibe explored in Godland, but adds a depth of characterization that lifts this work to a higher plateau. The film is ostensibly focused on the ongoing separation between artist Anna (Saga Garoarsdóttir) and her mismatched mate, Magnús (Sverrir Guonason). The pair share a teenage daughter named Ida and a set of ten year old twins. Magnús has not quite processed that Anna has given him the heave-ho. He slinks into his former household like a wary sheepdog and is usually graced a meal or a beer. However, he cannot reignite a spark with Anna who is clearly bored and irritated by her more simplistic spouse.

Magnús works on a fishing trawler. He is gone for weeks at a time as it is herring season and is bored and down in the dumps. The fish harvesting sequences alone would make this worth seeing, but The Love That Remains contains multiple strains and themes. Anna is an artist who weathers her work. Not in a random way, but deliberately so that it is infused with the elements of Iceland. The film traces the arc of the seasons from spring to winter. The fractured family joins together to pick wild berries and forage mushrooms. Among Ann's art pieces left out in the open is a Joan of Arc figure affixed to a stake. Her children use the figure for archery target practice, but the figure also stands in contrast to the ever changing face of natural Iceland. Ann's work grounds her to her land. In contrast, Magnús ends the film, literally, at sea.

Pálmason punctuates his narrative with surrealistic asides that amplify the film's themes. Some of these are dropped matter of factly. Some with flashy effects like split screens and whip pans. However, Pálmason never allows his film to be overcome with effects and uses them judiciously. Most of the surreal moments display an aptly unconscious tug. The exception is Magnús' dream of himself being menaced by a giant rooster. This is in response to his having killed a misbehaving cock at Ann's request. The dream is a too literal illustration of guilt, but it pays off when Ida tells off Magnús because of this foul deed and his subservience to his ex. The killing was played for laughs, at Magnús' ineptitude, but it hinges on one of the film's central themes: Are we instinctual beasts preying upon each other or can we deny or self-interest for the common good? The film's humor is predicated on the unease with which we regard out ambivalent state. There are no easy answers or good guys or bad guys in the film.

Ida's animal rights stance and the children's overall attitude towards sex and violence signals another of the film's themes: shifts in generational perspectives. The arrows into Joan of Arc and the recovery of World War 2 mines show that violence is an ever present reality even in peaceable Iceland. Ambivalence, the hallmark of maturity, is in evidence even in the film's appreciation of ugliness and beauty. Even the spectre and reality of death has its strange beauty in The Love That Remains. Brilliantly acted and memorably filmed, this is surely one of the best features released in the US in 2026.

                          

Disclosure Day

Emily Blunt

I was somewhat disappointed by Steven Spielberg's Disclosure Day. Technically, the film is superbly wrought, no surprise, and the contributions by longtime Spielberg collaborators John Williams and Janusz Kaminski are noteworthy. This is one of Spielberg's best casts and I enjoyed the efforts of Josh O'Connor, Eve Hewson, Colman Domingo, and, especially, Emily Blunt. Spielberg's direction has not curdled into aged lassitude. He can still direct a train wreck as well as anybody. However, the presence of an elaborate train wreck in the middle of already overly complicated conspiracy film about UFOs seems gratuitous, as if old Steve signed on so he could recreate the train wreck from The Greatest Show on Earth for the umpteenth time.

David Koepp's script is a mess. The picture involves a lot of cross cutting and chase scenes, yet generates little suspense. From the title of the film, we already know the cache of UFO footage held by Mr. O'Connor's character will be eventually released despite the desperate attempts by corporate titan Colin Firth to suppress "the truth". Firth's motivation for this is shaky, the usual old saw about people not being able to handle "the truth". Regardless, the picture is not named Non-Disclosure Day, so the audience knows in which way the picture is heading throughout. Koepp plunges us into the plot with nary a character sketch or motivation. To start the film, Mr. O'Connor is at a pro wrestling match to trade his alien footage to the corporate baddies who have kidnapped his missus (Ms. Hewson). We eventually get the back story, ad nauseam, but this opening sequence lacks suspense because the audience has no bearings. Spielberg color codes the wrestling sequence in red (capped), white, and blue, but this faint slap at MAGA is the only bit of attempted cultural relevance in Disclosure Day. 

I was also bugged by the film's whole mind melding schtick. Heck, if Colin Firth can read the minds of the good guys, then I think he should be easily able to thwart their plans. Koepp and Spielberg do get some yuks from Ms. Blunt's mind reading capabilities, but this is mostly due to Ms. Blunt's skill at having her face and posture convey what she is thinking. The film's other attempts at humor fall flat, particularly the character of Ms. Blunt's hapless musician boyfriend. While Mr. Koepp is responsible for some of the faults of Disclosure Day, the ultimate responsibility lies with the director. The disclosure footage show provide the director a good opportunity to strut his stuff, but the results are underwhelming. The footage of Nixon showing Jackie Gleason alien remains is botched. How could a scene like that be unmemorable? The CGI bits lack the bite and flair of even Ready Player One. In addition, we get B movie level footage of Roswell and Close Encounters redux. Are we still stuck on little green men after all these years?

As with super heroes, I admit to being less than fascinated with the subject of UFOs. If our alien overlords have not deigned to contact us, I'm sure they have reasons, but I'm not waiting to be enslaved or turned into a cosmic butterfly. You might as well wait for Godot. Though if any alien overlord is reading this and contemplating putting me in their zoo, please take Biff circa 1985 and pair him with a cloned Mary Astor. The fascination with UFOs seems a hallmark of the second rate mind. That is the nature of Steven Spielberg, a first rate film technician who does not possess a rigorous intellect.

Carlos Saura's Flamenco Trilogy

Laura del Sol and Antonio Gades

During the 1980s, Carlos Saura collaborated with dancer and choreographer Antonio Gades on three flamenco oriented films: Blood Wedding (1981), Carmen (1983), and El Amor Brujo (1986). The three films are now available in a new and spiffy blu ray set released by the Criterion Collection's Eclipse series. As with all Eclipse releases, the extras are nonexistent, but the films themselves are choice: dynamic detonations of movement cut exquisitely to stirring music. All the films celebrate Spanish culture, but also mock up the mythos underlying representations of Spain. The scenarios of the three ballets filmed are all based on material that stresses themes of reckless passion, infidelity, and murder. The dancers, singers, and musicians in these films perform as if conjuring the joys and torments of their ancestors. Saura escapes any high culture bugaboo and gives us the thrill of live performance.

Saura had been invited to witness a rehearsal of Gades and his troupe performing a dance adaptation of Lorca's Blood Wedding. This provided the impetus for a film that stays strictly within a rehearsal studio for its 71 minute entirety. The film is the most like a documentary of the three and the focus remains fixed on the artistic process. We never see a final performance of the piece. Indeed the first half of the film documents the dancers and players filing in, applying makeup, and warming up. Gades discloses a personal anecdote and we get a little insight into the performers by the talismans and gnomes they unpack from the fishing tackle boxes that carry their makeup. Despite the documentary facade, Blood Wedding is shot and cut more like Stop Making Sense or Shine A Light then Gimme Shelter. The three or four camera angles used in the rehearsal space maximize the kinetic impact of the dancers and the editing syncs it perfectly to the thunderous guitar and vocal accompaniment.

Carmen

Pretty much the same performers and their talents will leave viewers similarly agog in the followup, Carmen. The film is also primarily made up of rehearsals, but Carmen has more color, a bigger scope, and the semblance of a plot. Gades has to find a new dancer for his Carmen and, of course, he does so in the person of a young hoofer conveniently named Carmen played by Laura del Sol. Does life imitate art? Well, reality and artifice are so intertwined in the film that it is hard to say what came first. Gades and his fellow performers are not actors, so when he asks guitar great Paco de Lucia for romantic advice, the dramatic interchange comes off a little awkward. However, all my objections were swept by the bravura birthday celebration in which the cast performs a delightful burlesque of Prosper Mérimée's novel. 

El Amor Brujo makes the move to total artifice which Saura also employs in his subsequent musical films: Tango, Flamenco, Fados, Flamenco, Flamenco, and J: Beyond Flamenco. El Amor Brujo is based on Manuel de Falla's ballet and is centered amidst the Roma and Andalusian roots of flamenco. A stylized sound stage represent an expressively colored Granada slum in a lurid love saga with spectral emanations. There is no rehearsal footage this time. We finally get to see a show en toto. As before, there is a wedding, infidelity and a murder in a film that is an apt culmination to the series. This Eclipse set would make an ideal gift to dance and film lovers alike. 

El Amor Brujo

Eagles of the Republic

Fares Fares and Lyna Khoudri

Tarik Saleh's Eagles of the Republic is a twisty and compelling drama about an Egyptian film star who unwittingly becomes involved in dangerous political intrigue. George Fahmy (Fares Fares) is that top-flight movie star with the usual problems of the rich and famous. His films are universally adored in Egypt, but his personal life is a mess. He is separated from his wife, has an uneasy relationship with his teenaged son, and has little in common with his young mistress, Donya (Lyna Khoudri). Government officials give him an offer he can't refuse, the starring role in a hagiographical film about the current (mythical) Egyptian president. Fahmy is a Christian and is uneasy about both Islamic fundamentalism and his country's leaders, but, once his family is threatened, finds he has no choice. The filming is overseen by the stone faced Dr. Mansour (Amr Waked), a government agent who makes plain the fact that Fahmy and all those around him are being surveilled. 

To further complicate the plot, Fahmy embarks on an affair with Suzanne (Zineb Triki), the wife of the Minister of Defense. Fahmy becomes increasingly entangled in a web of many intrigues. An actress friend named Rula (Cherien Dabis) asks him for help after she has been blacklisted by the regime, presuming that he has pull with the powers that be. Fahmy does what he thinks is best, but tragic consequences, most unforeseen, result. Some have labeled Eagles of the Republic a satire, but I feel the body count is too high to describe it as such. I think it is more mordantly ironic than funny, akin to The Threepenny Opera. I also feel that the film has more depth of characterization than satire usually does. The supporting characters, some of whom I haven't mentioned in my summary, are all indelibly drawn and expertly played.

Best of all is Fares Fares. Eagles of the Republic, the third film of Mr. Saleh's Cairo trilogy which includes The Nile Hilton Incident and Boy From Heaven (all starring Mr. Fares), displays the full range of his talent. By the two thirds mark, Fahmy's mask of charm has been discarded for a visage of true terror. The film culminates in a replay of the Sadat assassination: the past as the future's prologue. It helps to know Egypt's recent history, but the picture ranks as one of my favorites released in the US in 2026. Mr Saleh is not much of a visual stylist, but my previous comparison to Sidney Lumet stands. Like Lumet, Saleh is a social realist of the first rank, able to embellish his characters with heart and intelligence. Eagles of the Republic is his most outstanding picture to date. 

Supergirl

Milly Alcock and Matthias Schoenaerts

Indifferently received by critics and audiences alike, I was not very psyched to watch Craig Gillespie's Supergirl, but I ended up being slightly glad I did. The super hero cosmos does very little for me. Even when I was a lad, way back in the 1960s, comic books never floated my boat. Superman is the absolute worst, an übermensch without Nietzchean aggro is not the kind of protagonist I am interested in. However, the super hero genre has yielded a few good films, as even the most despised genres sometimes do. I appreciated the comic and juvenile tone of Ana Nogueira's script for Supergirl. It is reminiscent of the Guardians of the Galaxy films in its use of PG-13 humor. The opening title includes Supergirl's dog, Krypto, urinating. Indeed, urination is a constant motif in the film as the characters mark their territory.

I would be cautious in letting tots see this film, but not because of the pee. The plot hinges on PTSD triggering violence and a search for revenge. Director Gillespie does not emphasize the violent deaths like a Peckinpah, Supergirl couldn't nab an R rating that way, but the film has some dark corners. We first meet Supergirl (Milly Alcock) trying to drink away her demons. In the inevitable flashback, we see the cause of her trauma and the beginning of her unhappy exile on Earth. She really gets PO'ed when a dastardly brigand named Krem (Matthias Schoenaerts) poisons her pooch. Krem has the antidote, so Supergirl must find him and extract her pound of flesh. Joining her in this quest is a younger lass named Ruthye (Eve Ridley). Ruthye's entire family has been massacred by Krem and she is obsessed with revenge. Supergirl is initially leery of Ruthye, but they soon develop a camaraderie. This was the primary charm of the film for me. Gillespie helps create a heathy rapport between his two young actresses that reminded me of the friendship and mentorship between Xena and Gabrielle; without the sapphic tease.   

Supergirl's CGI is on the cheesy side, but it is appropriate to the project. The hair and makeup are outstanding. I love the way Jason Momoa's bounty hunter looked like a cross between Gene Simmons and Randall "Tex" Cobb. Momoa is well cast and seems to have found his groove as a performer. Mr. Schoenaerts offers an amusing comic riff on dumb villainy. He seems well aware that his character has one dimension and is a mere bowling pin made to be knocked down by the hero, like Wile E. Coyote. Only David Corenswet is unsatisfactory. He is too stiff even for the Man of Steel. That cannot be said for Mr. Gillespie's direction. Supergirl is his most likable film since Lars and the Real Girl. It's final reel contains too much Biff, Bam, and Pow for me even, but such are the requirements of the genre.           

The Verdict (1946)

                   Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre                

Don Siegel's The Verdict, released in 1946, is a slightly above average mystery film. It is a B picture filmed entirely on the Warners' lot and set in 1890's London. The fog machines work overtime in this one. Sydney Greenstreet is the lead and plays a police inspector whose faulty investigation results in an innocent man going to the gallows in the film's opening section. Because of this, he loses his job, but a subsequent murder gives him an apparent chance at redemption. Peter Lorre is along for the ride as a dissipated painter who is Greenstreet's best bud, Lorre functions as comic relief and gets the lion's share of the film's best lines. When his landlady, frightened by the recent string of murders, tells him that she is going to bed with a police whistle, he replies, "How would you blow a whistle if somebody cuts your throat?"

The Verdict's script is a series of hoary cliches, but the film boasts solid performances. George Coulouris is enjoyably effective as Greenstreet's successor and bête noir. Joan Lorring, Rosalind Ivan, and Arthur Shields are all sterling in support. This was Siegel's first directoral effort after making his mark in the Warner's editing department with such eye catching credits as Casablanca and Gentleman Jim. His work on The Verdict displays some flourishes that belie a director eager to make his mark. His use of the crane and whip-pans (during a trial sequence) are striking, but are somewhat removed from the no nonsense style he would develop as a mature director. The Verdict is better than most routine programmers, but is more an amusing diversion than the indelible films Siegel would eventually direct.

A night with Lou Reed

Lou Reed

A night with Lou Reed is a terrific concert video taken from a show at The Bottom Line in New York City in February of 1983. The newly sober and married Reed is on his best behavior, clearly chuffed to be playing live with the most accomplished band of musicians he ever toured with. That band--Robert Quine on guitar, Fernando Saunders on bass, Fred Maher on drums--had recorded The Blue Mask with Reed, his best release in many a moon. The follow up to that album, also recorded with the same band, Legendary Hearts was due to be released in March. Before an intimate audience of yuppies and Andy Warhol, the quartet provides a robust show of new material and oldies, quite a few dating from the days of the Velvet Underground.   

The video is competently directed by Clark Santee, but is missing four numbers from the concert. Still, the world probably doesn't need another live version of Heroin. I slightly prefer the versions of the songs on this video to the versions on the Live in Italy album which was recorded by the same band later that year. Both Saunders and Quine were exemplary improvisers and Reed provided them more leeway than was usual in his touring band. It is particularly unusual for a bass player in a rock band to be given the chance to provide numerous solos and flourishes as Saunders did for Reed, but Saunders was an accomplished jazz player who had already accompanied such guitar luminaries as Jeff Beck and John McLaughlin. Reed's joy at Saunders' solo on New Age here reflects the enormous pleasure he got from Saunders' playing. Saunders ended up contributing to Reed's albums and tours into the 21st century, remarkable given the track record of testy Lou.

Fernando Saunders, Lou Reed and Robert Quine

Such was not the fate of Robert Quine. A lifelong Velvets fanatic, he and Reed parted ways in 1984, never to collaborate again. Quine was not overly fond of touring and retreated to session work. Reportedly, Quine played on Legendary Hearts' followup, New Sensations, but his contributions were erased by Reed after the two wrangled over the writing credits for I Love You, Suzanne. Besides his work with Reed, Quine's sizzling guitar work is best sampled on the two Richard Hell and the Voidoids albums and the explosive passages he lent to Matthew Sweet's albums in the 1990s. While not as ecstasy inducing as 1969: The Velvet Underground Live, A night with Lou Reed is an impressive document of a short lived band in cozy surroundings. Lou doesn't have to hector vocally as much as he does on the Live in Italy. This video was released on VHS and Betamax in 1984 and there is a laser disc from the 1990s floating about which can be had on eBay. Luckily, A night with Lou Reed can be seen and more importantly heard for free currently on Tubi. It will please any and all rock and role fans.
                             

Out of It

Gretchen Corbett and Barry Gordon

Paul Williams' Out of It is an amateurish teen film set in Long Island in 1965 or so. The teens take turns dating each other and hanging out at the beach. The boys are tormented by their football coach (Frank Campanella) during summer practice and that is about it in terms of plot. Nobody seems to have a summer job. The kids are enjoying upper middle class leisure and the film, to its credit, acknowledges this. Williams' dialogue is more nuanced than his direction. Even the villains of the film have moments in which we see glimpses of humanity. Ultimately, this is a better teen flick than the beach blanket flicks or a pretentious youth picture like Last Summer. The main reason is that its four main actors are all solid performers who have their moments here and would go on to greater acclaim. 

The main character of Out of It is Paul (Barry Gordon), a restless and horny teen riding out the summer between Junior and Senior year. He is a existentialism reading nerd ultimately more interested in getting some girl action than understanding Camus. He dates Barbara (Gretchen Corbett) briefly, but doesn't seem to mind when she pairs off with one of his buddies. This is because he is fixated on Christine (Lada Edmund Jr.), a stunning blonde who functions here much as Suzanne Somers would in American Graffiti. Christine is going steady with Russ (Jon Voight), a lunk-headed football star and Paul's nemesis. The role of Russ is not dissimilar to that of Joe Buck. Out of It which, judging from Ms. Corbett's paisley bikini, was shot in 1967, sat on the shelf for a while until it was released in 1969 to ride the coattails of Voigt's starring role in Midnight Cowboy. Voigt was promoted as the star of Out of It along with Gordon, but Voigt's role in the film is really a supporting one.

Barry Gordon and Jon Voigt

Russ, at one point, taunts Paul about his Jewish heritage. I found this interesting, especially since Out of It seems to be a cut rate version of The Graduate, a film which somehow managed to turn Dustin Hoffman into a goy. Director Williams gives Paul some ridiculous Walter Mitty type fantasy sequences that fall flat, but he also gives Paul moments of emotional growth that redeem a shaky picture. Paul asks Christine out for a date and is surprised when she accepts and eventually comes on to him. He is able to provide her the conversation and feeling of relatedness that she doesn't find with the dim Russ. Paul learns that to have a real relationship there has to be a common bond that transcends sexual attraction. This leads him back to Barbara.

The wimpy baroque rock soundtrack is credited to the New York Rock Ensemble and one of its members, Mark Snow. Snow would soon leave the group and become a successful composer for television and film. Out of It is greatly helped by the cinematography of John G. Alvidsen who went on to direct Rocky and The Karate Kid. His efforts are the most professional aspect of a film that suffers from poor pacing and clunky sound. Barry Gordon would have a successful and long career in television and movies. He ended up being the longest serving President of the Screen Actors Guild, but is best known as the voice of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles' Donatello. Lada Edmund Jr. was one of the original go-go dancers on the Hullabaloo television show and eventually realized that she was not cut out for acting. She became one of the most successful stunt women in Hollywood. 

Out of It marked the film debut of Gretchen Corbett, always a Kino Biff favorite. She is most famous for her continuing role as James Garner's on-again, off-again love interest and attorney on The Rockford Files. She was either bussing Garner or bailing him out. An Oregon native, Corbett first had success with the Oregon Shakespeare Festival and on the Broadway stage. Her glowing notices led her to be signed by Universal Pictures as one of its last contract players. She eventually returned to Oregon and has been heavily involved in Portland theater for the last thirty years or so. She still makes appearances in films and television, usually for productions that are filmed in the Pacific Northwest like Pig, Portlandia, and Shrill. I think she is the cat's pajamas and the bee's knees.

James Garner and Gretchen Corbett in The Rockford Files

Normal

Bob Odenkirk and f(r)iends

Ben Wheatley's Normal combines small town atmosphere, propellant bursts of action, and dark comedy. Bob Odenkirk stars as Ulysses, the newly hired interim sheriff of Normal, Minnesota. That an outsider could take on such a job for a mere two months strains credulity, but Normal strives for a canvas of bent reality rather than realism itself. Soon into the film, Ulysses and the audience begin to feel that something sinister is lurking beneath the prairie home exterior of the little burg. An inept bank robbery reveals that the institution was housing yakuza money and that the whole town is on the take. Ulysses and the two hapless robbers (Reena Jolly and Brendan Fletcher) must fight off the entire populace. The town is armed to the teeth and Ulysses takes advantage of the firepower in an extremely violent last act.

Normal was written by Derek Kolstad, the writer chiefly responsible for the John Wick series of films. Mr. Kolstad has written a clever script, thankfully more compact than the operatic Wick films. The action scenes contain more of a Rube Goldberg/ Wile E. Coyote element than in the Wick films and are expertly wrought by Wheatley who has previously displayed his action chops in Free Fire and Meg 2. Kolstad gives Ulysses a voice over narration in the form of phone messages to his estranged wife, Penny (geddit). Odenkirk handles the voice overs with aplomb, but this points to the derivative nature of Kolstad's work. Not derivative of Homer though Kolstad is brainy enough to make shout outs to Dorothy Parker, Breaking Bad, and Old Boy. No, Normal is a Coen brothers tribute, grafting the Homeric allusions of O Brother, where art thou? to the high plains noir of Fargo. There are worse formulas, I suppose, but seasoned cinema goers will have seen it all before.

That said, Kolstad deserves credit for creating varied and striking roles for a compact, B movie format and Wheatley has elicited good performances from Mr. Odenkirk, Ms. Jolly, Mr. Fletcher, Henry Winkler, Lena Headey, Jess McLeod, and Billy MacLellan. Manitoba stands in well for Minnesota and the picture gets points for killing off a beloved character actor halfway through the proceedings. Mr Wheatley's psychedelic dynamism meshes well with Kolstad's askew view of his characters, but with limited results. Novel seems more like a project for hire for Wheatley whose best and most personal works remain the films he has directed in his native England: Sightseers, A Field in England, and In the Earth.               

In the Fog

Vladimir Svirskiy at center

Sergei Loznitsa's In the Fog, from 2012, is a harrowing series of vignettes showing Belarusian partisans fighting Germans and Belarusian black shirts during what the Russians term the Great Patriotic War. The film's title points to the ambivalence with which the film regards wartime allegiances. The plot hinges on issues of betrayal and retribution. Sushenya (Vladimir Svirskiy) is a railway worker suspected of collaborating with the Nazis, implicating three comrades who are hung for sabotage. Late one night, an old friend named Burov (Vladislav Abasin) comes calling. Sushenya knows that the partisans have decided to execute him. He is accepting of his fate and walks away from hearth and home with Burov and another partisan.

In the Fog opens with a bravura sequence detailing the hanging. It is a near wordless dolly through the watching soldiers and horrified populace. It firmly establishes that the Nazi's have let slip the three-headed dog of war, terror, and torture. The remainder of the film follows Sushenya and his two executioners as they head into the woods. As often amidst the fog of war, things go awry. The slow burn of the plot is heightened by three flashbacks which illuminates the back story of the principals. The film is based on Vasil Bykaǔ's 1989 novel. A Belarusian author, Bykaŭ specialized in World War 2 fiction. His novella The Ordeal was the basis for Larisa Shepitko's film masterpiece The Ascent. 

In the Fog is terse to the point of absurdity. Danger is always imminent, so talk is cheap. Loznitsa ratchets up the feeling of paranoia by eschewing a musical score. Thus, our attention to the ambient sounds of the film is heightened whether we are listening to the trees rustle, an animal cry or a far off rifle shot. Even if I find the ending fatalistically predictable, In the Fog stands alongside such memorable films about Russian resistance fighters as The Ascent and Elem Klimov's Come and See. 

Confidence Girl

Andrew L. Stone's Confidence Girl is an above average B crime film about a team of bunco artists. This 1952 flick is a tight and compact 81 minutes with nary a rhetorical flourish or flashy camera movement. Stone, ably assisted by his editor wife Virginia, was able to churn out B features that he also wrote and produced for nearly forty years. His hallmark was documentary like verisimilitude utilizing actual locations. If you want to see what the May Department store on Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles looked like in 1952 then Confidence Girl is the place to start. The police procedural aspect of Confidence Girl reminded me of Dragnet which had premiered on radio in 1949. In fact, Stone's pictures closely resemble the just the facts directorial style of Jack Webb. A cheap, but direct style with which to create cinema. Tellingly, Confidence Girl begins with a speech from the real life LA chief of police, warning the audience to be wary of scammers, flim-flam artists, and swindlers.

Happily, the audience soon is ensconced in the machinations of the film's miscreants. Roger Kingsley (Tom Conway) and Mary Webb (Hillary Brooke), along with a couple of confederates, are lifelong fraudsters, adept at all sorts of chicanery. We witness them pilfer an expensive mink coat from May's and fleece a pawn broker. Kingsley keeps the couple one step ahead of the law by posting as a private detective. He feeds the police just enough info to earn their trust, but not enough for him and Mary to end up in the clink. His access to the police comes in handy when Mary embarks on a career as a medium, packing them in at a nightclub. The reveal as to how Mary appears clairvoyant is the cleverest bit in the script. Eventually, Roger and Mary's scam is intertwined with a murder case. Do the nefarious duo reform in the final reel in order to prevent a tragedy? You betcha, but the flick is enjoyable in its predictability. 

Tom Conway was best known as being the older brother of George Saunders. Conway had similar talents as his brother and a similarly limited range. Thus, he is well cast here as a cad. Conway had a pretty good career, all things considered, with memorable roles in a number of classic Val Lewton films and appearing as the Falcon in a successful serial. Hillary Brooks did not have as stellar a career, but, like Conway, was an effective performer within a narrow range. She is better displaying the hard bitten aspects of her character than her vulnerable side. She is best when mesmerizing an audience as a medium. Somebody connected with Confidence Girl must have remembered her superb turn in a similar role in Fritz Lang's Ministry of Fear. John Gallaudet and Jack Kruschen, well remembered by the surviving remnants of my generation who were glued to the boob tube, offer wonderful support as a pair of clueless, yet dogged flatfoots. The MVP of the picture is cinematographer William H. Clothier. His elegant compositions give depth to the minimal production values on display while adhering to the demands of Stone's realism. Clothier would graduate to A films and work with practically every American Western director before retiring in 1973. His most eye-popping work, in which he was required of much more than on Confidence Girl, includes Track of the Cat, The Comancheros, Merrill's Marauders, and Donovan's Reef. 

Desperate Journey

                        
Raoul Walsh's Desperate Journey is a World War 2 flick that is more exciting and entertaining than it has any right to be. The film was hastily concocted and is part Allied war propaganda, part Errol Flynn vehicle, and part celebration of raucous male camaraderie à la Walsh. Arthur T. Horman was credited as the author of the screenplay, but many hands were involved in the makeshift script that bumped Gentleman Jim from production so Warners Brothers could show they were supporting the war effort. Second billed Ronald Reagan received his call for active duty as production commenced, so his rushed scenes added to the chaos surrounding the picture. 

Desperate Journey was shot in early 1942 before the tide of the war turned in favor of the Allies. Thus, there were precious few American victories to celebrate. Warners solved this problem by setting the film before America's entrance. The plot hinges upon a dangerous mission undertaken by an RAF bomber which is crewed by a bizarrely international lot. The Brits on board are all sacrificial lambs. Alan Hale Sr. is one of them and serves as the film's comic relief, spitting seeds on friends and foes alike. Flynn is an Australian co-pilot, Arthur Kennedy plays a Canadian navigator, and Reagan is a Yankee bombardier. I'm sure British audiences found this odd, but Hollywood was stressing the international effort needed to defeat the Axis foes, as in the next year's Sahara. 

Desperate Journey opens with a near silent prologue in which a Resistance fighter blows up a train crossroads. He is shot, but not before releasing a carrier pigeon which flies to England and gets the plot rolling. Walsh dollies in on the bird just as it takes flight. An apropos gambit in a film concerned with flight, movement, and pursuit. We then move from the pigeon's den to the cooped up pilots awaiting their mission. Stellar cinematographer Bert Glennon shoots the picture as if it were a noir, the Europe of the film consumed by darkness. Rudi Fehr's superb editing gives the illusion of verisimilitude to this set bound action film, mixing studio and newsreel footage. Flynn and crew's plane crashes after finishing their mission. Thereafter, they must cross Germany with monocled Nazi Raymond Massey the chief hellhound on their trail. Most of the actors playing Germans, including Massey, actually speak German in the picture, a rarity among Hollywood war pictures. 

Ronald Reagan, Errol Flynn, and Arthur Kennedy

Desperate Journey would be a rather dour picture without the bantering bonhomie of the players, a Walsh specialty. The three leads above play along well with the real surprise being the flippant charm of Mr. Reagan. This is his best performance along with his apposite turn in Don Siegel's The Killers. Flynn was a little jealous of the attention the younger star was receiving and tried to wrest a key comic turn from his co-star, but the producer was adamant and Reagan got to spew amusing gibberish at the expense of Mr. Massey. In that same scene, Reagan looks longingly at Massey's lunch, a shot echoed by the one of Tom Hanks gazing at a roast beef sandwich in Saving Private Ryan. Nancy Coleman is the sole skirt in the picture, a requisite noble Resistance supporter. She is fine, but only gets a kiss on the hand from Flynn for her efforts. 

Max Steiner's score suffers from his typical bombast. I cringed at the use of God Save the King, Deutschlandied, and The British Grenadiers Song. I did appreciate Steiner's use of harps in the picture's first major death scene. Massey is under used. He is merely on hand to sneer at the scion of the "decadent democracies." The film boasts stellar production values. I wondered if the flyers were hiding in the castle from Robin Hood at one point. The depiction of military weaponry and communications are fairly accurate amidst much japery. Desperate Journey is no masterpiece, unlike Gentleman Jim, but it has surprising craft and personality for a piece of wartime proselytism.

Mr. Nobody Against Putin

Pavel Talankin

Pavel Talankin and David Borenstein's Mr. Nobody Against Putin is a remarkably brave and revealing documentary. Mr. Talankin worked as an event coordinator and videographer at a large school in the Russian town of Karabash. Karabash is a burg of 10,000 nestled in the Ural Mountains and dominated by an enormous copper smelting plant. Talankin recognizes the limitations of his hometown, but displays an undying affection for its humble landmarks and inhabitants. His aged mother also works at his school as a much put upon librarian. The film chronicles two years in the life of Pavel and his students beginning with the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022.

Not only do we witness the inhabitants of Karabash reacting to the conflict, but we see how the Russian government shapes the propaganda fed into the minds of its students. Not only must teachers recite state approved scripts extolling the war, but Talankin has to record this being done and then relay the recordings to the central authorities. He feels that he has become a cog in Putin's war machine and becomes increasingly uneasy. As the war progresses, the school becomes increasingly militaristic, a proving ground for future cannon fodder. Talankin was lucky enough to receive assistance from a Western producer and fled Russia in 2024 along with his film. One cannot forget those left behind, including his mother, who are caught in the maw of a rough and heinous beast. 

Yet, Talankin does not demean those who support the war. He lets them speak for themselves. In particular, a party toady on the faculty who is rewarded by Moscow for his loyalty. When Talankin asks the man who his heroes are, the man cites the most violent and vile of Stalin's henchmen. Talankin's own mother takes an extremely fatalistic view of the situation. Men fight wars she says resignedly and who can refute her. Mr. Nobody Against Putin is as an expert portrait of a totalitarian nation at war and the manifold complexities of its populace. It is a must see. Just this March, the Russian Ministry of Justice named Talankin a foreign agent. This designation of Talankin as a traitor is a capital crime that carries with it a sentence of death.                        

It Was Just An Accident

Vahid Mobasseri

I think it is difficult for me to be objective about the films of Jafar Panahi because of the high esteem I have for him as a beacon of light and sanity in today's world. Regardless, I recommend his latest, It Was Just An Accident, with some very minor reservations. Most of Panahi's ten or so superb pictures have been shot surreptitiously and It Was Just An Accident was no exception. Panahi has run afoul of Iran's ruling mullahs numerous times and is currently appealing a one year sentence for engaging in propaganda activities against the state. He has experienced torture and this informs his latest picture. The film's protagonist, Vahid (Vahid Mobasseri), is an auto mechanic who is gifted by fate to have the opportunity to turn the tables on a hated tormentor from his past named named Eghbai.

Eghbai is the first character we meet in the film, tersely driving through the night with his pregnant wife. Panahi shoots this with a fixed two shot, capturing the subtle interplay between the couple. We are pleasantly surprised when the couple's young daughter pops into the screen from the back seat. Unfortunately, this brief idyll is interrupted by their auto colliding with a wild dog. After subsequently encountering jarring potholes, their vehicle becomes no longer operable. Eghbai, who wears a prosthetic leg, encounters Vahid and prevails upon him to help him find a garage and shelter. Vahid tails Eghbai who we eventually learn was a notorious torturer known to his victims variously as Peg-Leg and Mr. Gimp. When his guard is down, Eghbai is knocked unconscious by Vahid who drives to the desert where he plans to bury Eghbai alive. However, Eghbai plants seeds of doubt in Vahid's mind and he resolves to find other victims to confirm that he has the right man.

This first section, an impressive display of pure cinema with little dialogue, shows how an economy of means necessitated by filming in secret can work to a film's advantage. There are no crane shops or circle dollies to distract us from Vahid's eyes. We are getting to know the man and his dilemma that will inform the rest of the film. As the film develops it becomes more polyphonic in scope for good and bad. The past victims of Peg-Leg join Vahid in his van as they debate whether he is the actual perpetrator and what price justice demands. As the bare-headed modern photographer named Shiva, Mariam Afshari fleshes out an under written role. Mohamad Ali Elyasmehr provides needed comic relief as the volatile Hamid. However, a bride and groom are just along for the ride, stock characters of no import or impact. The debates between the passenger about the fitting fate for Eghbai sound like Panahi on his soapbox rather than conversations. The film regards the quagmire of revenge and I support his hope for a stop to the endless cycles of violence in the Mid-East. However, Panahi puts this message across too baldly.

Mariam Afshari

Along its way, It Was Just An Accident becomes something of a dark road comedy. There is a plot twist designed to highlight the basic humanity of the characters. Snore. Panahi invokes Waiting for Godot, but his film is more like Little Miss Sunshine. The flick becomes cutesy at times, but, ultimately, the overall effect is jarring; purposely so I believe. The film is discordant, a tough tone to maintain in an entertainment. It does fit in tackling a weighty theme which questions wherein lies the seat of evil. It Was Just An Accident is a picture that will linger uneasily in one's mind and I mean that to be a compliment.