Interiors | Chicago Reader


Appalling. Only a natural comedian like Woody Allen could make a film as unnaturally grim as this. There are nothing but stone faces as far as the eye can see—which is not very far, thanks to Gordon Willis's dark, excessively mannered cinematography. This family drama is probably the dullest art film since Ingmar Bergman's Cries and Whispers, and somehow that seems to be just what Allen had in mind. Diane Keaton has been grossly miscast; most everyone else—E.G. Marshall, Geraldine Page, Maureen Stapleton, Mary Beth Hurt—struggles nobly but ineffectually with Allen's absurd dialogue, which comes complete with aching voids opening beneath one's feet (1978). PG, 93 min.

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