University of Virginia Library

Belching A Ludicrous Nightmare

By KEN BARRY

California has in the last few
years been the site of a series
of lunatic slayings that have
shocked and nauseated the
American conscience. But
perhaps no single segment of
the public has been more
deeply affected by these
memory searing-events that the
movie industry filmmakers have
found it necessary, apparently,
to work out their own penance
by re-enacting such nightmares
on the screen for all to soberly
witness.

Well, the sex-violence-insanity
bag has belched again,
and out comes "Play Misty for
Me," directed by and starring
Clint Eastwood (fortuitous
casting, no?). Eastwood plays
a soft-cooing West Coast
late-night disk jockey hounded
by an excessively ardent fan.
While Eastwood's best girl
(Donna Mills) is out of town,
the fan (Jessica Walter) plots a
chance meeting, conducts the
unwary D.J. to her bed, and
subsequently claims him as her
own.

This is outrageous, because
Eastwood had said from the
start it was a one-time shot and
keeps telling her for the rest of
the flick to hit the road. That
is, until she starts pulling
scissors and knives to establish
the point she likes him quite a
lot. Eastwood from then on is
sort of speechless—especially
when his maid, the local cop,
and finally his girl are
endangered or gored by the
fan's jealous inclinations.

Eastwood as director
manufactures enough
unexpected appearances and
knife brandishings by his
femme fatale to keep the
fainter hearts in the audience
palpitating. But most viewers
will — or should — find
themselves laughing a
lot—which is the reason "Play
Misty" might be worth going
to see.

It is one of those
ill-begotten films so bad its
"good"—i.e., funny. There are
more logical gaps and ludicrous
camera stunts than in a Three
Stooges outing; and those
gratuitous shots of spurting
wounds and dead bodies might
strike you — simply as
monuments of execrable
taste—hilarious: they did me.
But don't expect "Play Misty"
to impress in any other
dimensions.

(Now At The Paramount)