This time out, Costa-Gavras, perhaps the cinema's foremost muckraker, takes his topic from the same can of worms opened by Marcel Ophuls in The Sorrow and the Pity (after that, the deluge). Specifically, the topic is a case of injustice in the courts of the Vichy puppet government so flagrant that it pleads for an ironic treatment. But Costa-Gavras hasn't the touch for it. He's all fists, no fingers. Yet, except for the early assassination scene (done ill-advisedly in slow-motion, to prolong it for more than it's worth), Costa-Gavras tells the story without action, without victories, and even without automobiles. This self-imposed restraint leads to some of the director's finest work ever -- some scrupulous detailing of the governmental milieu, the airy wood-panelled or gold-leafed offices, the polished floors and squeaky shoes, the handsome, cumbersome men's suits and formal manners. In the business of setting the scene, he is aided enormously by the muted color work of Andreas Winding. But the confinement to bureaucratic chambers must finally have driven the bullish director a little stir-crazy, for in the courtroom scenes he takes flight into some of the most maudlin flashbacks ever witnessed. Michel Lonsdale, Jacques Perrin, Bruno Cremer, Claude Pieplu. (1975) — Duncan Shepherd
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