Two Days, One Night, directed by Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne

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Two Days 1Sandra (Marion Cotillard) has returned to work at the factory after a bout of depression to discover that her position has been eliminated. Her boss, M. Dumont (Batiste Sornin), has found that he can manage with sixteen workers as well as with seventeen. To shift the blame off himself, he gives Sandra a chance to save her job. If she can convince her co-workers to give up their bonuses, he will have enough money to keep her on the payroll. A devilish proposition among people who have been short on funds their whole lives. Today is Friday; the vote will take place on Monday.

Two Days 2Sandra’s husband, Manu (Fabrizio Rongione), understands without saying that Sandra must rise to this challenge, not only to save her paycheck, which the family needs, but to regain her will to live. Thin, with circles under her eyes and a perfunctory ponytail, Sandra wants nothing but to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head. From moment to moment cajoled and encouraged by the tireless Manu, she does not hide her despair, her mortification at having to ask others to sacrifice for her, her dread of their resentment if she prevails and they lose the bonuses they have been counting on for home improvements, their kids’ education, the rent. Manu has much to put up with, but to the Dardennes’ credit the movie allows him a quiet heroism without heroics. The focus remains on Sandra’s plight.

For two days and (part of) one night, bolstered also by her righteous friend Juliette (Catherine Salée), Sandra makes the rounds of her co-workers’ homes, asking if they will vote for her to keep her job. The question poses a crisis, not just for Sandra, but for the others as well. Few are so heartless as not to feel the difficulty of her position; few have the luxury of giving up a bonus. A husband and wife, a father and son, argue bitterly over which way to turn. Immigrants confess their fear of getting on the wrong side of the boss who has engineered this farce. The final vote, however it turns out, will divide the workers, fracture their solidarity, as M. Dumont undoubtedly knows.

In her frail state, each “no” returns Sandra to despondency; each “yes” fills her with the gratitude only the desperate can feel. She is the sensitive instrument through which the Dardennes allow us to perceive a social injustice softened by acts of decency. Yet, to the Dardennes, as to the great humanists of French literature, Sandra is not merely an instrument. She is also a person who must decide whether to exist—not just on the factory floor, but in the world.

Play (2011), directed by Ruben Ostlund

Play 1Although Swedish director Ruben Ostlund spoke candidly about his films at his recent appearance at the Walker Art Center, the films themselves shift perspectives, providing slippery viewing. Perhaps this is because Ostlund himself struggles with his take on the social construction of conflict—between men and women, between black, white, and Asian teenagers. His ambivalence sometimes seems like a cop-out, but at the same time makes the viewer assess her own emotional reactions to the situations on the screen.

In his break-through film, last year’s Force Majeure, Ostlund exposes well-off, family-centered masculinity to humiliating tests, revealing his male characters’ human frailties in spite of their performance of reasonableness and capability. In a final scene, however, he complicates the gender critique when his main female character, frightened out of her wits by a precipitous alpine bus ride, momentarily sheds her responsible maternal persona.

In Play, a group of adolescent African immigrants prey on their middleclass peers, conning them out of cell phones at the mall. In the film’s prolonged central episode, they entrap three boys, two white and one Asian, for a day of endless tram rides, feints, threats, embarrassments, and, finally, robbery. Significantly, this entrapment is accomplished without a weapon, and the only one who gets physically hurt is a black kid who doesn’t want to play.

The director emphasizes the passivity, even complicity, of the victims of the bullying. Sullen and frightened, they nonetheless ignore opportunities to be rescued, as when they are offered refuge in a café until they can contact their parents, but instead go back outside to continue the confrontation with their tormentors. Does Ostlund intend this scenario as a metaphor for how immigrants are hustling decent Swedish folk, who are too hamstrung by political correctness to protect themselves and their civilization? For most of its duration, the film opens itself to this interpretation.

But wait. As in Force Majeure, Play includes a final table-turning scene. Two white dads descend on one of the troublemakers at a bus stop, while their own sons cower behind a building, and take back a cell phone by force. They may be in the right, but they kind of act like jerks, as noted by two white women who witness the incident and upbraid them for manhandling a young immigrant. Unlike their own sons, who seem to wish their dads would just let it go, the black kid puts up a fight, swinging at the dads and squawking about his poverty and innocence, exploiting the rhetoric of liberal whites.

Ostlund, at least at this early point in his career, seems to be more interested in tracking Foucauldian power maneuvers in complex social situations than in distinguishing the oppressors from the oppressed. His thought-provoking films, accompanied by beautiful, cool cinematography (here by Marius Dybwad Brandrud), are well worth ninety minutes of squirming.

Leviathan, directed by Andrey Zvyagintsev (2014)

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LeviathanIn extreme states brought on by one or the other’s villainy, alcoholism, hypocrisy, adultery, or death, the characters in Leviathan talk, rage, and whisper about faith and reason, guilt and forgiveness, love and suffering. Simultaneously with these conversations, the film’s extraordinary cinematography, by Mikhail Krichman, of a peninsula by the Barents Sea, with its wild shoreline, monumental whale skeleton, and ruined church, tells a riddling story of human beings struggling with monsters of oceanic proportions.

Who or what is the antagonist in Zvyagintsev’s contemporary tale of Job? The mayor, Vadim (Roman Madyanov), contends most strenuously for this role, as he pries away the family home from Kolya (Aleksei Serebryakov), a blameless car mechanic. Vadim, whose whims will not be denied, primes his flunky judges to reject Kolya’s successive appeals to keep his land, as Kolya grows increasingly maddened by the mayor’s greed and his own impotence before the corrupt legal system.

But the mayor and his court have rivals in deviltry in the priest and his Orthodox Church—not the decaying chapel where the boys gather, but a fancy place tricked out in satin and gold. Even the vicious but devout Vadim occasionally doubts himself and turns to God’s servant to guide him. Presiding over a sumptuous table, the priest cites technical reasons for refusing to hear the mayor’s confession and promises not to interfere in the worldly affairs of a defender of the faith.

Neither does reason escape culpability for human suffering. Kolya calls on his army friend Dmitriy (Vladimir Vdovichenkov), now a smart city lawyer, to help him win his case. Dmitriy digs up plenty of mud on the mayor, which he threatens to bring back to Moscow if the court does not desist. Yet, by believing that the facts will triumph over lies, Dmitriy only proves the inefficacy of the human intellect to prevent tragedy. After his near assassination by Vadim’s minions, he leaves town, but not before starting an affair with Kolya’s sad and emotionally exhausted wife, Lilya (Elena Lyadova).

Returned home to Kolya and his hurting adolescent son, Roma (Sergey Pokhodaev), a penitent Lilya stands by the sea, watching a whale breach the waves. Shortly afterward, she disappears. Though it heralds yet another bitter affliction for Kolya, however, the whale is not to be confused in simple fashion with the leviathan of the film’s title. In the form of the giant skeleton on the beach, the whale also aligns with the shell of the old church; with Kolya’s home as it succumbs to the wrecking ball; and with the stricken man himself, to suggest a different order from that inhabited by the mayor, the priest, and the humanist lawyer: An order in which God is not absolved from tragedy.

The Two Faces of January, screenplay and direction by Hossein Amini 

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January 4

Hossein Amini wrote the screen play for Iain Softley’s 1997 screen adaptation of Henry James’ The Wings of the Dove, about a man plotting to inherit a fortune by pretending love for an invalid, and his partner, a woman with the foresight of Lady MacBeth. Now Amini adapts as well as directs another novel about a secretive threesome abroad, Patricia Highsmith’s The Two Faces of January. Highsmith’s prose is not as complex as James’, but the Oedipal structure of her tale makes for compelling viewing.

In 1962, a wealthy American, Chester MacFarland (Viggo Mortensen), is sporting his trophy wife, Colette (Kirsten Dunst), across Europe. A young American tour guide, Rydal Keener (Oscar Isaac), offers to guide them around Athens. Chester hires him, although he has already seen the young man cheat his date when paying a restaurant tab. Soon Chester and Colette are wondering, Who is this fellow who claims to be a Yale graduate and the dispossessed son of a rich and terrible father? Whoever he is, he speaks several languages and knows Athens intimately, and Chester can spare the money Rydal skims from the couples’ purchases in the bazaar.

One night a detective comes to the MacFarland’s hotel room and demands payment for a client whom Chester has scammed out of a lot of money—not just a few drachmas tacked onto a restaurant check. Chester punches the detective, planning to flee the hotel while his antagonist is unconscious, but the man hits his head and dies. Chester and Colette, who seems upset but not unduly surprised, call on Rydal to get them out of Athens.

The three become fugitives while Rydal arranges for fake passports and Chester doles out wads of cash. In forced proximity, the attachments among the fugitives proliferate. Chester and Rydal are psychically handcuffed by the murder, to which the younger man is now an accessory. The handcuffs chafe increasingly as Colette begins to turn against her husband for getting her into this mess and toward the handsome and attentive Rydal.

Rydal’s conscious reason for helping the couple escape is that he loves Collette, but infatuation blinds him to a another barely submerged motive. He can punish his implacable real dad by stealing the wife of his surrogate father, Chester, whose crimes tower over his own petty larcenies. Furthermore, like Chester, he cannot resist an opportunity to make money, the riskier the better. The world of the film being Greece, a fateful meeting at a crossroads between Chester and Rydal looks inevitable.

Oedipus is not the only mythical character brooding over the film, however. There is also the two-faced Janus, an image first of the amiable bilking tour guide and then of the hotshot financier murderer. But possibly the most two-faced of the group is Colette (whose name, it turns out, is a pseudonym), giddily attached to her husband’s arm and wallet until the going gets rough. The film works hard to give her victim status, but fails. Perhaps Kirsten Dunst is not a good enough actress to make the character compelling, or perhaps Highsmith, the fox, realized that Jocaste is merely a cipher, currency in the rivalry between father and son.

Only Hipster Left Alive

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Only Lovers Left AliveJim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive mourns the demise of a beautiful scene—a cultured hipster vampire scene that has lasted for hundreds of years. Now mortals—or zombies, as the vampirati ironically call them—are destroying nature, the root of all beauty, and cutting the blood supply with bad stuff. Brilliant and wise vampires, such as the 500 hundred year-old playwright, Christopher Marlowe, are dying of it. And who knows? In this fallen age, maybe vampires themselves are passing tainted hemoglobin for money or kicks.

Secreted away in a velvety-dark mansion in feral Detroit, Adam (Tom Hiddleston) composes experimental music on analog equipment, buys blood from a louche hospital employee, and loads his gun with a wooden bullet to shoot into his own heart when he can’t take the zombies for one more century. His long-time wife, Eve (Tilda Swinton), finds the gun on a visit from her home in Morocco, and pleads with Adam to cheer up. Their love, still passionate, abides separation; time is on their side. That is fortunate, since the nearly-albino Eve loves the hot white nights of Tangier as much as the raven-tressed Adam thrives in the dank urban underbrush.

Less gloomy than Adam, Eve too must face the possibility of expulsion from Eden after her callow younger sister, Ava (Mia Wasikowska), shows up at Adam’s house. A modern take on The Big Sleep’s thumb-sucking party girl, Carmen Sternwood, Ava is wont to break into her brother-in-law’s stash, gulping down the blood that her betters sip from sherry glasses–and no wonder, since the pure elixir affects those who imbibe it like a heroin smoothie. One night, Ava brings home an admirer, sucks his blood, and leaves him for dead. Adam and Eve send her packing, but now they too must skip town. After a grueling trans-Atlantic flight without nourishment, the couple are fading by the time they arrive in Morocco, only to find that their connection has fallen through. It looks like the end.

The film’s title has a double meaning. Lovers—that is, the vampirati—are the only creatures left on Earth who are truly alive: to beauty, to nature, to art, to the art of love. What’s more, Adam and Eve, as the blood supply dries up, are virtually the only cool vampires left alive, and perhaps not for long. Charming and visually exquisite, the film is an elegy for a lost sensibility, wrought by a director who once found this world stranger than Paradise.

Night Moves, directed by Kelly Reichardt

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Night MovesNight Moves is a neatly constructed thriller, a swerve toward classicism after Reichardt’s deconstructed Western, Meek’s Cutoff.

Here, the planet is dying—not apocalyptically, but golf course by clear-cut mountainside. The film’s Oregon looks just like the actual Oregon, but, instead of ignoring the signs like the most of us, the film’s young protagonists register each depredation on the trajectory toward ecological disaster. Josh (Jesse Eisenberg), who lives in a handsome yurt on the communal farm where he labors, silently grieves for the natural world. He barely speaks to other people. Dena (Dakota Fanning), a therapeutic masseuse at a New Age spa and member of the farm’s extended network, lucidly quotes the statistics and chafes to do something.

Having previously worked together on smaller actions unwittingly bankrolled by her wealthy family, Dena and Josh now conspire to explode a dam that is destroying a river valley east of Portland. Josh believes that this event will make people think, bring them to their senses. What Dena hopes to accomplish is not clear, but in the face of the facts she cannot do nothing.

The two hook up with a third party, Harmon (Peter Sarsgaard, perfectly typecast), an ex-con living in a trailer in the woods and working at one of those golf courses. Older, cooler, and craftier than the others, he loves the land without signing up for any utopian programs. He can live with moral contradictions.

The plan is to load a motorboat with sodium nitrate fertilizer and a timer, stake it to the dam under cover of night, row to safety, and avoid contact with each other for the foreseeable future. After an increasingly breathless series of crises—the feed store will not sell Dena the fertilizer without a Social Security card, a fellow ex-con IDs Harmon at a breakfast joint, a tourist stops to repair a flat on the road above the dam just as the saboteurs start the timer—the deed is done.

This is hardly the climax of the film, however, but merely the catalyst for its real conflict. In true Hitchcockian fashion, the perpetrators show up for work the next day to hear that a camper has been killed in the incident. If they are caught, they will go to jail for life. If they are not caught, they will live with a murder on their conscience, a heavy secret for the young idealists Josh and Dena. They can pull off the crime, but can they handle the subsequent tension? Can they trust each other not to crack?

Reichardt creates complex female characters on difficult journeys, such as the vagabond on her way to Alaska in Wendy and Lucy and the pioneer Emily Tetherow in Meek’s Cutoff (both played by Michelle Williams). While Josh is the main protagonist of Night Moves, Dena’s character depicts the plight of a smart young woman in post-feminist America.

When we first see Josh and Dena, scoping out the dam, we notice that her jeans are tighter than his and that she plays with her hair, the telltale marks of female redundancy beside the self-sufficient male. When she tries to make conversation with her tightly-wound, barely civil accomplice or prepares sandwiches for the team before the big action, she is doing women’s work. When she asserts herself in a disagreement with the condescending Harmon, Josh barks at her to shut up. No matter how keenly competent she is, she will always be a tagalong. What does she have to do to prove herself, blow up a dam?

Gloria, directed by Sebastián Lelio (2013)

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GloriaGloria (Paulina Garcia) believes that love is the anodyne to death. As she stands in a little crowd on a street in Santiago, watching a skeleton puppet’s jerky dance, she makes up her mind to forgive Rodolfo (Sergio Hernández), her spineless lover.

Rodolfo is evidently smitten with the auburn-haired Gloria, whom he has recently met at a club and taken to bed. Intimacy involves removing his bellyband, the result of intestinal bypass surgery for weight management. She takes this unromantic development in her stride.

Gloria thrives in love, bungee jumping and playing paintball at the amusement park Rodolfo owns and waxing her legs while singing romantic ballads along with the radio. Introducing him as her partner, she brings him to a small family reunion to celebrate the birthday of her son, a new father whose wife has abandoned him, and to say farewell to her daughter, who is departing for Sweden to be with her lover. As the glasses are filled and refilled, Gloria and her ex-husband laugh together over old photographs, moved by the mingled pain and happiness suffusing the room.

Suddenly everyone realizes that Rodofo has departed without a word, apparently miffed at the momentary straying of Gloria’s attention. She is humiliated and angered by his rudeness and immaturity, refusing to answer his begging messages. Then she sees the skeleton dance and picks up the phone.

To make it up to her, Rodolfo takes Gloria to a seaside resort. It is paradise, until his daughter calls him home to take care of his clinging ex-wife, who has had a minor (perhaps intentional) accident. Gloria begins to pack her bags. No, no, I am not going, he promises her. Perhaps to test his mettle, Gloria strips, rips off his protective bellyband, and mounts him.

At a candlelit dinner that evening, his mobile buzzes. Gloria laughingly lobs it into his soup. He excuses himself to use the restroom and never returns. Devastated but not defeated, she slams down a few screwdrivers and parties the night away, waking at dawn on the beach in somebody’s dinner jacket.

Back in Santiago, she unplugs the phone, vacuums her car, and showers. Then she sets out to the wedding of a friend’s daughter. As if on an intuition, she walks out to the terrace. There a white peacock magestically opens his fan for her. Similar in size and color, with feathers instead of bones, he is the opposite of the skeleton puppet and a sign of life’s wonder. Back in the dining room, Gloria’s friends call from the dance floor for her to join them. She does, at first moving hesitantly, then at last joyously. Life is the anodyne to death.

Blue Is the Warmest Color (La vie d’Adèle), directed by Abdellatif Kechiche, adapted from the graphic novel Le Bleu est une couleur chaude, by Julie Maroh

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Are the sex scenes in Blue Is the Warmest Color too long? Are they an appropriation of lesbian sexuality for the viewing pleasure of the general public?

In a blog post written in May, Julie Maroh, who authored the graphic novel on which the film is based, described the film as as a “brutal and surgical display, exuberant and cold, of so-called lesbian sex.” In addition, Lea Seydoux and Adele Exarchopoulos, who play the lovers at the center of the story, accused the director, Abdellatif Kechiche, of mistreatment during filming, when (among other things) he reputedly exhorted the exhausted actresses, “Hit her! . . . Lick her snot!” Mr. Kechiche has responded by insisting that the actresses have no idea what mistreatment is, compared to working class French Arabs such as himself who are trying to make their way in the world.

In fact, the film is brilliant portrayal of first love—at least for the teenage Adele, if not for the more sophisticated art student, Emma—in which the lovers discover in each other a new world incarnate. Their love-making extends beyond pleasure to a voracious (Adele’s word) impulse to consume, incorporate, and merge with each other. If it becomes frantic and mechanical, this is what sex is like after the third or fourth orgasm: a kind of delirious agony.

Consciously or not, Mr. Kechiche revisits ground previously laid out by feminist filmmakers such as Chantal Akerman and Jane Campion, who in the films Je, tu, il, elle and Sweetie, for example, dispassionately explore female orality, the drive that leads a character to eat a whole bag of sugar with her fingers or ingest her sister’s collection of tiny porcelain horses. (In literature, see Rita Mae Brown’s self-explanatory Rubyfruit Jungle and Jewelle Gomez’ The Gilda Stories, about an admirable band of lesbian vampires.)

This is a valid and important theme, but Blue remains an ethical tangle. Mr. Kechiche’s claim that the film is about the class divisions he himself has encountered is undercut by his reputed treatment of Ms. Exarchopoulos, the blameless young actress who plays his uncultured heroine, Adele. She had it just as rough as the accomplished Ms. Seydoux, whom Mr. Kechiche has excoriated for the family connections to which he attributes her success.

And Mr. Kechiche sells his heroine short. As a student, Adele is a passionate reader who lectures her boyfriend, a math whiz, on the fascinations of La Princesse de Cleves. After she moves in with Emma, her interests narrow to cooking and sex. Yes, she becomes a dedicated school teacher, but she loses her intellectual curiosity and independence, and Emma cannot really be blamed for growing bored.

In spite of himself, Mr. Kechiche makes the charismatic and ambitious Emma a complex character and not a stock figure of privileged snobbery (or perhaps it is Ms. Seydoux who accomplishes this feat). When Emma tires of Adele, she forces the girl into someone else’s arms for solace, and then uses the infidelity as an excuse for breaking up. It is a cowardly way to end an affair, but a very human one. Perhaps it is even a kindness that only years later does Emma admit to Adele that she doesn’t love her anymore.

Whatever else his mistakes, Mr. Kechiche should not be criticized for being a man who made a film about lesbians—that time is past. It is a beautiful film, whose palette—from Emma’s hair to Adele’s dresses to the very woodwork—never palls. Mr. Kechiche may be through with Ms. Seydoux, but blue is still the coolest color.

Everyone Else (“Alle Anderen”), Directed by Maren Ade (2009)

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Monkey-woman Gitti (Birgit Minichmayr), with her slim white body, short red hair, and mobile face, somewhat overwhelms her boyfriend Chris (Lars Eidinger), an emerging architect waiting to hear if he has won a prestigious prize. On vacation on the Mediterranean, Gitti wants to disco dance, to play jokes, to cuddle on the beach, while Chris sometimes tires of games and buries himself in his book. Newish lovers who have not yet moved in together, they might yet find their balance.

Whom should they encounter at the seaside but Chris’ established colleague, Hans (Hans-Jochen Wagner), and his pretty wife, Sana (Nicole Marischka). At first, Chris tries to avoid his rival, but Hans insists that the two couples dine together.

Despite a lovely al fresco setting at Hans and Sana’s vacation place, the evening falters. When Hans patronizes Chris with advice, Gitti calls him on it. The others are embarrassed by her boldness. Hasn’t she understood that this is not a conversation among friends and equals (Gitti is a successful music agent) but an initiation? The protocol demands that Chris take Hans seriously and that Gitti be grateful for the attention bestowed on her man. But this is not Gitti’s kind of game.

Back at their own cottage, Chris and Gitti are no longer the same people. As Chris sulks, Gitti’s confidence erodes. Although disillusioned by his conformism, she is too in love to drop him. Instead, stiffening under the strain, she begins to train herself to be a desirable helpmeet.

Chris and Gitti entertain Hans and Sana to dinner. Things seem to be going well, until after the meal Hans swoops up Sana and throws her into the pool, dress and make-up and all. She emerges smilingly, a good sport. Of course Chris must then seize Gitti, and with the help of Hans, for she is struggling and protesting, dunk her in the drink. She emerges angry and humiliated, and stomps into the house.

People as physically enthralled with each other as Gitti and Chris do not break up easily, and the psychological tension only torques tighter as they try to sort out their feelings. She goes so far as to pack her bags, but literally faints before she reaches the door. When she awakens, he is bending over her.

In this her second feature film, director Maren Ade leaves open-ended the relationship of Gizzi and Chris. Perhaps he will gain the courage to love a monkey woman, perhaps she will learn to tone it down, perhaps they will call it quits–or perhaps they will go on as they are for some time to come.

A Woman under the Influence, Directed by John Cassavetes (1974)

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Cassavetes 2A woman under the influence of what: Alcohol? “Nerves”? Mabel Longhetti (Gena Rowlands) loves her children, her husband, Nick (Peter Falk), music, people—she loves too much. She can’t turn it off or even tone it down.

When Nick brings his construction crew to the house for a meal after a long shift working for the city, Mabel dishes up the spaghetti, pours the wine, and overwhelms the shy, silent men with demonstrative hospitality, flirting in a maternal way to make them feel at home, jumping out of her seat to pinch their cheeks, until Nick barks at her to sit her ass down. After the men shuffle out in polite embarrassment, Nick assures Mabel that she hasn’t done anything wrong—it’s just that the men (especially the black men, though Nick only hints at it) would misconstrue her innocent antics. He underestimates his men, but in their name and in the name of normalcy, represented by his controlling mother (Katherine Cassavetes), Nick sends Mabel to the loony bin.

The crisis comes when Mabel gives a little party for her three kids and three schoolmates, brought to the house by their uptight dad. Mabel turns on the music to Swan Lake and joins the children waltzing and fluttering around the patio, ending in a group dying swan fall. The dad begins to think Mabel is nuts. This isn’t how adults behave.

Mabel discharges her troops to play dress-up. They are having a ball, but when her little girl Maria streaks through the living room naked, hell breaks loose. The dad storms around collecting his kids and their belongings, as Nick and his mother, damn it, come through the door. Mother-in-law bundles away the naked girl-child, Nick hits the other dad and then Mabel, and before long Nick, his mother, and the family doctor have administered the hypodermic and Mabel has gone away.

Nick’s coworker, Eddie (Charles Horvath), empathizes with Mabel, warning Nick that she is a sensitive person to be treated with consideration. Rather than understanding this as it is meant, Nick retorts, “She isn’t crazy.” The day after Mabel goes to the hospital, Nick picks a fight with Eddie (that “Mexican American” bastard), and Eddie falls to the bottom of a quarry. His body breaks in time with Mabel’s spirit. Well, his spirit is broken, too.

Mabel comes home a polished ghost, stammering responses to an assembly of her parents and in-laws. When she dares mention her shock treatments, Nick cuts her off with “the past’s the past.” At last she stands up and begs them all to leave so she can go to bed with her husband. Bleats of “not in front of the children” go round the table.

Mabel still believes that alone, away from the social situations in which she reads as a wacko, she and Nick are a team. Whether Nick believes it, Cassavetes leaves famously and heartbreakingly unanswered.

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