"Dance with a Stranger" (1985, Dir: Mike Newell)

An impossibly protracted study of obsessive love, hampered by a bad script, poor editing and an unengaging directorial hand.

I watched this for my beloved Miranda - she's one of my favorite actresses - and, boy, did she let me down. It isn't a bad performance, by any means - the fact that this was practically her debut makes it quite impressive. It's a feral performance, and it seems like she's acting purely on a stream of consciousness. She attacks the script with her teeth bared and her claws out, but it isn't strong enough to hold up. The film itself caves in under her OTT gesticulation and gorgon's stare. It is a monumental performance that, at the same time, fails spectacularly.

The visuals are interesting, but they don't successfully distract from the film's stagnant pacing. At one point, I thought "This must be over by now", and when I looked at my watch I found that I was only forty minutes in, with an hour to go. Not a good sign. Supporting thesps are decent - a young Lesley Manville makes an impression in a small role as a girls' bathroom gossip - but co-lead Rupert Everett isn't suave enough to convince us that any woman would stay with him despite the repugnance of his actions.

Glad I saw it - I'm a Miranda completist - but it's a slog and she's done better work since.

"The Homecoming" (1973, Dir: Peter Hall)

A cinematic spray of acid straight to the face, this caustic little masterwork explores the dramas of sex and childhood with a ferocious candor on par with "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?", a film I mini-reviewed here a few days ago. It explores the familial structure like a surgeon performs an autopsy. Based on a two-act play by Harold Pinter, the film also unfolds in two acts - "Night" and "Afternoon". The first act is a brilliantly cryptic study of character and motivation without emotion or sentiment, and it showcases some brilliant ensemble acting. The second act isn't half as good - it ditches the labyrinthine dialogue of the first act and settles for a blunt and ungraceful conclusion. Still, the very end is unusual and chilling.

The acting is, by and large, great. I enjoyed Cyril Cusack and Ian Holm the most - the former plays, perhaps, the only truly sympathetic character in the film, and Holm acts with the most innate charisma. Paul Rogers is very good, if a little monotonous, as the malignant father (figure?). Michael Jayston and Terence Rigby do well with what they are given, but they don't have a lot of room to explore their characters. I picked up this film for Vivien Merchant, although I didn't enjoy her performance as much as I hoped I would. She has astoundingly expressive eyes - just watching her face in this film is an education - but the performance isn't nearly as vocally inventive. She's good, but there's a curious dissonance between the two halves of the performance.

Some questions I have: Did Max molest Teddy, Lenny and Joey as children? "Think of the fun we used to have in the bath", "He still loves his father!" and a couple other lines I can't recall right now spring to mind. Also, was MacGregor Max's lover? If you've seen the film I'd love to hear your insights on these subjects.