Marj, there is one very good thing about The Boy Friend (sorry Billy I can't remember if it is supposed to be one word or two), and that's the very tall wonderful dancer who's name escapes my old brain, but even he can't save the overdone mugging and extreme close-ups and exaggerated effects and the actual assault on the audience. Ken Russell is as subtle as a garish pale of puke in your face.

I hope you see it, I'd be curious as to how you'd rate it. I endured it for about 30-45 minutes.

Tommie Tune and Twiggy did another musical together. Which I've conveniently blanked out. Damn. But it was all Gershwin. I was living in Denver at the time, but my sister saw it and loved it. Well, she loves everything. But I did see a few scenes from it on the Tony awards and it looked swell.

There is a sight called http://www.ioffer.com which has the film. It's been remastered from a laserdisk and costs about seven dollars. I'm giving it some thought.

ROTFALMFAO!

The time has come. My time has come!

Gabrielle

Adaptation of a Conrad short story - fertile material for films; see also The Duellists - that's as pitch-perfect a bit of filmmaking as I've seen lately, from veteran Patrice Chereau, that unfolds with Hitchcockian precision and foreboding grace whilst remanining resolutely intimate in telling the tale of a haute bourgeois gentleman's disillusionment and downfall because of his wife's leaving - and then returning to - his house one afternoon. Pascal Gregory is a study in fraying control as the man and Isabelle Huppert is his sphinx-like wife. As the story builds, with Gregory beginning as utterly assured and triumphant, and finally prowling his own cavernous mausoleum of a mansion like a starved lion, it delivers a merciless punchline. Both its poise as cinema and the subtle but scalpel-sharp character study show up a helluva lot of shit that passes for incisive filmmaking these days.