A Spanish priest deciphers the exact date of birth of the Antichrist (Christmas, 1995) and sets out on a quixotic quest (this is Spain, remember, where quests are prone to be quixotic) to save the world: "I must sell my soul to the Devil, but I don't know how." His best idea, clear as mud, is to ingratiate himself with Lucifer by becoming a very bad man in a very big hurry; and his only ally, his Sancho Panza, is a head-shop clerk and heavy-metal fan. This devilish comedy, as it would probably hope to be described, might have worked better if we had no reason to believe the priest. (The giant cross that comes down from the wall of the church, narrowly missing the protagonist and nailing his superior squarely on the head, persuades us right off the bat that Evil is afoot.) The sub-Buñuelian anticlerical jabs -- the priest picking the pocket of a roadway fatality, shoplifting, scratching cars with a set of keys -- seem a little ill-timed, to say the least, at the very dawn of the Apocalypse. Where would be the sport in a Quixote who tilted at tangible dragons? Alex Angulo, Santiago Segura, Armando de Razza; directed by Alex de la Iglesia. (1995) — Duncan Shepherd
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