A widow is pursued by her murdered husband’s former confederates for booty she does not know she has, but—it turns out—does. This is of course Stanley Donen’s Charade, of 1963.


No place to linger, here, under the gaze of blank windows. No fish live in that pool. Nothing grows that is not planned. A scene from Bergman, or Tati, or Alain Resnais.


One element is always on display at this hour: the spectacle of childless, two-income professional couples, one of whom will be resentfully walking their expensive, neurotic, designer dog, taken out each evening to wee on the border plantings and scurry back inside.

Jessica Jones

Something like the preoccupations of other long tales with an element of the fantastic, from the Bible to Lord of the Rings by way of Pilgrim’s Progress. That is, an extended debate on the nature of radical evil, or, more precisely, on what to do about it.


Timothy Spall’s Turner puffs and grunts, squints and waddles, stabs and spits, he gropes and nuzzles and rogers, he mostly frowns but sometimes twinkles and now and again chortles. Turner’s housekeeper, played by Dorothy Atkinson, contributes a supplementary gallimaufry of moues and angular postures.