Dina Korzun played an immigrant, abandoned with her son in the sordid wastelands of Merrie England, in Last Resort, and her character is in a way an extension of this part. In 40 Shades she is the trophy wife of a 'legendary' Memphis record producer, and her fragile, doll-like beauty is an extreme foil for Rip Torn's gross and menacing but superficial superstar. It is an unsettling experience to see a film like this coming from America: after half-an-hour, the plot doesn't seem to have settled on a direction. About twenty minutes have passed before we can begin to guess who everyone is, and what they are doing. None of that in-your-face stuff. The enclosed world of these people is shot mostly indoors and feels suitably claustrophobic; it's perhaps a mistake by the director to extend this feeling of claustrophobia to the auditorium where you may be watching this, though, and similarly, the exploration of ennui amongst the rich and powerful backslappers should not cross over into the darkness of the front row, like some kind of virus. Antonioni used to specialise in this kind of milieu and he (damnably) admitted that he found boredom fascinating. There is a dulled spark in there, though: Michael (Burrows), the son of the Great Man, and the lonely doll fall desperately in love, and there is an excellent scene where Big Al lovelessly declares his love for his Laura through a hootenanny P.A. while the young pretender, the hungry wolf, or Lonesome Polecat, prowls around the edge of the dance crowd. But about 40 minutes into this your reviewer began feeling the passing of time, and by the end, even this theatre's lovely new seats were arse-numbing. A noir-ish film like this should provide lots of enjoyment for the eye alone, but the camera-work was outstandingly ordinary. There is a good enough film in there, but it needs to be cut out of the block. CLIFF HANLEY
