Beautifully shot – almost too beautifully given the mundane storyline – and unevenly acted, the film deserves kudos for an intelligent rendering of an adult problem: the post-traumatic stress of a returning WW2 vet, and the miseries it puts him and his wife through.
The dramatic thrust of the film – erroneously labeled European by some viewers – is hampered, not by its slow unfolding, but by passive characters. John Savage is sometimes strong and sometimes not in his portrayal, but he's been stymied by a script that has him only desultorily going after various goals. Maria, a far better if still uneven performance by Nastassja Kinski (whose talent is strong; the inconsistency is clearly the director's fault), also only gradually commits to her husband. That's fine and real but with only minor characters (Vincent Spano, Keith Caradine) strongly after an objective, the movie is moribund at its center for much of its running time. (Robert Mitchum's character and performance are both dismal.)
The film gathers some tension once Nastassja is mit Kind, and Savage's predicament reaches the breaking point. The resolution is somewhat satisfying though not entirely credible (Savage feels more like a life-long alcoholic at this point) and comes about through his chance meeting with Caradine's philanderer.
More literary than filmic in its construction, the movie's best feature is Nastassja's performance. But because her life, like her husband's, feels more acted upon than really lived, the movie just lumbers.
The dramatic thrust of the film – erroneously labeled European by some viewers – is hampered, not by its slow unfolding, but by passive characters. John Savage is sometimes strong and sometimes not in his portrayal, but he's been stymied by a script that has him only desultorily going after various goals. Maria, a far better if still uneven performance by Nastassja Kinski (whose talent is strong; the inconsistency is clearly the director's fault), also only gradually commits to her husband. That's fine and real but with only minor characters (Vincent Spano, Keith Caradine) strongly after an objective, the movie is moribund at its center for much of its running time. (Robert Mitchum's character and performance are both dismal.)
The film gathers some tension once Nastassja is mit Kind, and Savage's predicament reaches the breaking point. The resolution is somewhat satisfying though not entirely credible (Savage feels more like a life-long alcoholic at this point) and comes about through his chance meeting with Caradine's philanderer.
More literary than filmic in its construction, the movie's best feature is Nastassja's performance. But because her life, like her husband's, feels more acted upon than really lived, the movie just lumbers.
