A psychological rectification of kitsch and its destructive countersign, but the real secondary theme is of less interest than Balaban’s art with the re-creation of society now in collapse.
Or, to look at it another way, a child’s-eye view reckoning all childish distortions into an equation that corrects for distortion.
The galvanic comic propensities of Sandy Dennis are exhibited. The entire cast is not to be missed in this.
Honestly, you give the critics a little surrealism and the lights go out, they can’t find their popcorn with both hands, let alone the exit.
I guess they don’t read much, or see many plays or good films. Freud or Albee or The Vault of Horror would serve the purpose.
Is it still presumed that actors can’t direct?