This takes Jaglom one step further in cornering the US market in the lost and the lonely, with a personal style that is pure innocent delight. Emil is the sort of middle-aged baldy who combs the few remaining strands over his dome, wears socks under his sandals, and spends his time busking his way through endless free-form monologues about his tottering love-life. Crossing over his shambling rhetoric is Black, giving the performance of her career, as an unfocused kook who hasn't a clue what she wants but is fairly certain that she's being followed by her ex-husband. The film is essentially a plotless reverie of lyrical whimsy encircling the usual New York crazies in a slow waltz. There is more than a little magic abroad: Orson Welles (in footage borrowed from Jaglom's own A Safe Place) tries to make some very large animals disappear; Black can sing a mean blues. It ought to fall apart in its own cheerful indulgence, leaving all concerned with egg on their faces; but somehow it's all done with such a loopy benevolence that it emerges as the damn nicest film since Astaire stopped dancing. CPea.
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