The title role is the Ambrose Bierce of legend, who threw over the literary life and vanished without trace in the turmoil of the Mexican Revolution. It's a difficult role to fill, because it, like Bierce himself, is so much hot air. But Gregory Peck, calling on all his stature, all his dignity, and whatever is left of his great voice after filtering it through broken glass, comes close. However (and alas), he is not the central focus of the movie. The story of personal liberation within the national liberation -- that of a gringa spinster (Jane Fonda) who throws away her corset and loses her virginity to a Marxist Hamlet (Jimmy Smits) -- keeps seizing the spotlight when we want to remain in the wings with Peck. What we have here is a fairly common Hollywood phenomenon whereby the main thing that gets a project off the ground (A Fonda Films Production, after all) is the same thing that brings it crashing back down. It is not an appetizing sight to watch this actress attempting to turn back the clock to Period of Adjustment or thereabouts, carrying out a prolonged impression of a parakeet getting its first taste of champagne. The larger story around her, moving from a big messy battle scene to rebel-camp frolics, a lengthy detour into luxury and production values, and a final return to viva la revolución, is sodden with Leftist nostalgia. From a novel by Carlos Fuentes; directed by Luis Puenzo. (1989) — Duncan Shepherd
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