Moira Harris is a country girl who moves to the corrupted urban pit called Dublin. She has a teaching job but we don't see much of it. Her main interest seems to be in finding a suitable mate.
She doesn't have much luck. The first man who asks her out on a date is a queer duck. It's her Headmaster of English. He's older than she is and he ought to be stable, if a bit boring, but instead he gargles his wine while tasting it at a fancy restaurant, then, when he drives her home, asks if he can rub her tummy before she goes in. The habit traces back to his mother. ("I was lucky. She died when I was ten, before I could outgrow her.") So much for Robert the Headmaster.
Then she meets a visiting American writer in a neighboring apartment, Timothy Bottoms. He's charming at first, one of those Yanks with a sentimental attachment to the land of his ancestors. But, if anything, he's more screwed up than the Headmaster. He pulls childish stunts like telling her to hide a coin in her underwear and letting him dowse for it. The charm quickly morphs into rage when he thinks he's been mistreated. Finally he blows his cork entirely, calls her all sorts of filthy names, and throws her into a thicket. So much for Danny Sullivan.
But through all this, by means of a curious set of circumstances, she has met a police inspector who limps. Somebody has been calling the young girls of Dublin and whispering dirty nothings into their ears. Not VERY dirty. Not vulgar really, but insinuating, with an occasional physiological trope like Mallarme. "I envy the slab of pavement that bears the imprint of your foot." THEIR slashers are more pretentious than ours. Some of his listeners, he tracks down and stabs to death, leaving their naked bodies in an odd posture. One of the victims happens to be a neighbor of Moira Harris, and she's taken by the polite but rather intense police inspector who interrogates her, played by my erstwhile co-star, Christopher Cazenove. "Oh, Inspector," she gushes to herself, "your breath doesn't smell like pipe tobacco but like basil." Harris has an unanticipated encounter with the Dublin slasher, after which, instead of running to the nearest police station, she takes the ferry for England so that the utterly absurd climax can take place in the Irish Sea and the perp can fall screaming into the icy water, leaving Harris behind, holding a piece of him in her arms.
Just a few impressions. One is that there is nudity and cursing going on here and even simulated coitus, which tells me that there must have been big changes in Irish cinema since I was last in a Dublin theater, watching an American movie from which the words d*** and h**** had been excised. Second, Moira Harris has large expressive features that can turn in a twinkling from joy to fright with only a minimal muscular rearrangement. She has one of those rolling walks too, of the kind that used to be attributed to sailors. Lindsay Crouse and Lee Remick had it too. She's quite attractive without being stunningly beautiful. The script by Robin Hardy is commercial trash combining sex, violence, and romance. The best performance is that of Mick Lally as Uncle Lar. His impression of a drunken guy peeling a boiled potato is peerless. And Hitchcock would have appreciated the stomach-churning story he tells during the act.
This is one of those rare movies that should have just dropped the sex and violence and concentrated on the characters. Instead it looks like a poor imitation of an already exhausted American genre movie.
She doesn't have much luck. The first man who asks her out on a date is a queer duck. It's her Headmaster of English. He's older than she is and he ought to be stable, if a bit boring, but instead he gargles his wine while tasting it at a fancy restaurant, then, when he drives her home, asks if he can rub her tummy before she goes in. The habit traces back to his mother. ("I was lucky. She died when I was ten, before I could outgrow her.") So much for Robert the Headmaster.
Then she meets a visiting American writer in a neighboring apartment, Timothy Bottoms. He's charming at first, one of those Yanks with a sentimental attachment to the land of his ancestors. But, if anything, he's more screwed up than the Headmaster. He pulls childish stunts like telling her to hide a coin in her underwear and letting him dowse for it. The charm quickly morphs into rage when he thinks he's been mistreated. Finally he blows his cork entirely, calls her all sorts of filthy names, and throws her into a thicket. So much for Danny Sullivan.
But through all this, by means of a curious set of circumstances, she has met a police inspector who limps. Somebody has been calling the young girls of Dublin and whispering dirty nothings into their ears. Not VERY dirty. Not vulgar really, but insinuating, with an occasional physiological trope like Mallarme. "I envy the slab of pavement that bears the imprint of your foot." THEIR slashers are more pretentious than ours. Some of his listeners, he tracks down and stabs to death, leaving their naked bodies in an odd posture. One of the victims happens to be a neighbor of Moira Harris, and she's taken by the polite but rather intense police inspector who interrogates her, played by my erstwhile co-star, Christopher Cazenove. "Oh, Inspector," she gushes to herself, "your breath doesn't smell like pipe tobacco but like basil." Harris has an unanticipated encounter with the Dublin slasher, after which, instead of running to the nearest police station, she takes the ferry for England so that the utterly absurd climax can take place in the Irish Sea and the perp can fall screaming into the icy water, leaving Harris behind, holding a piece of him in her arms.
Just a few impressions. One is that there is nudity and cursing going on here and even simulated coitus, which tells me that there must have been big changes in Irish cinema since I was last in a Dublin theater, watching an American movie from which the words d*** and h**** had been excised. Second, Moira Harris has large expressive features that can turn in a twinkling from joy to fright with only a minimal muscular rearrangement. She has one of those rolling walks too, of the kind that used to be attributed to sailors. Lindsay Crouse and Lee Remick had it too. She's quite attractive without being stunningly beautiful. The script by Robin Hardy is commercial trash combining sex, violence, and romance. The best performance is that of Mick Lally as Uncle Lar. His impression of a drunken guy peeling a boiled potato is peerless. And Hitchcock would have appreciated the stomach-churning story he tells during the act.
This is one of those rare movies that should have just dropped the sex and violence and concentrated on the characters. Instead it looks like a poor imitation of an already exhausted American genre movie.