The Seventh Veil

Ineffable tripe which mixes a heady stew of kitsch, culture and Freud as a concert pianist obsessed with the idea that she can never play again (people will keep rapping her over the knuckles) is cured by a psychiatrist (Lom) who guides her through her past in quest of the man she really loves. With Mason providing the catchpenny dream of (masochistic) romance - lame, dark and sardonically brooding, he's the guardian who relentlessly drives her towards success and away from frivolous affairs of the heart - you know that McDermott's cheery bandleader and Lieven's society portrait painter don't stand a chance. Enjoyable, sort of.