John Huston's total externalization of Malcolm Lowry's highly internal novel, about the last drunken daze of the former British Consul to Cuernavaca. The externalizing process works all right in the focal performance of Albert Finney, who tempers the most extreme degrees of intoxication with pathetic attempts at dignity and self-control. But Finney, stuck as he is in one groove, cannot be expected to carry the entire movie; and he, or it, gets little help from Jacqueline Bisset, who, as the estranged but conciliatory wife, can hardly be on camera five seconds without a slip-up. Nor can much help be expected from Huston, whose point of view is rather detached and reportorial, an unuseful approach when not much is happening. And Huston's Mexico (well photographed by the veteran native cameraman, Gabriel Figueroa) adheres to the most well-worn paths: candlelit church, cantina, bullring, cockring, bordello, and, at length, a run-in with those stereotyped giggling bandidos out of Treasure of the Sierra Madre. (1984) — Duncan Shepherd
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