Antonioni brings his sober regard to the United States and tries to make himself at home amid rebellious youth. He seems considerably tentative, a little ingratiating, a little obsequious, about attaining the correct attitude. And he sometimes seems to let scenes out of his grasp altogether -- the rap session with Mrs. Cleaver, the dance troupe cavorting in Death Valley. (The parody of a real-estate promotional campaign seems out of his reach to begin with.) Most of his perceptions could probably have been clipped from the pages of Life, Newsweek, Playboy. But, beyond all that, he has turned out an ideniably fine-looking movie, with sharp, blasting color (a lot of sand and sky), some nicely put-together scenes (such as the one in a decrepit desert town where Patti Page's voice drifts through the air, sounding simultaneously dreamy, distant, and dried-up), and smasheroo finish. Mark Frechette, Daria Halprin, Rod Taylor. (1970) — Duncan Shepherd
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