That Cold Day in the Park – Review
That Cold Day in the Park has received almost unanimously bad reviews since its release in 1969. Now getting a pristine Blu-ray transfer for a new generation to ponder over, its qualities shine brighter than ever; many may believe that this terrific film is largely composed of the faults that litter Robert Altman’s early work, such as a near-histrionic, feverish mood that squeezes through every frame – think of the much-debated dream sequence from 3 Women, a genuine Altman masterpiece. But it’s been severely underestimated on all fronts, and it’s time we recognised it for the lean, scathing, Modern Gothic oddball that it is.
It’s this grip on tone that keeps the movie on track, even when its story may threaten to drift off its rails; Altman always brings it back with an overarching grace and, most importantly, a point.
Frances (Sandy Dennis) is a wealthy spinster whose only company are elderly acquaintances who keep her on a short leash. Spending her days carrying out meaningless errands, she notices a young man (Michael Burns) – a boy, even – shivering in the cold rain in the park across the street from her apartment. Upon inviting him up, it turns out he’s a man of few words – none, actually – and his mute coolness is like a splash of icy cold, impossibly refreshing cold water over her, reinvigorating and reminding her of all the things she could so easily have if her place in society wasn’t already set in stone. Over the next few days, the boy remains in the apartment, spending the hours being lavished with treats and, at night, sleeping in a bedroom down the corridor from Frances, a distance which slowly diminishes in her mind. But is the young man really just a good listener, or is he pulling some kind of cruel hoax on a vulnerable older woman?
Key to That Cold Day in the Park’s success – and probably the point of most contention, regarding its frosty critical reception – is the treatment of Frances in the movie’s gaze, especially concerning her fragile mental state. Putting any doubt to rest, Frances is never once mocked; Sandy Dennis is exquisitely cast as a woman on the verge of middle-age, whose reawakening libido is a force so powerful that, while it doesn’t phase the boy, it pins us squarely to our seats. Altman’s exquisite style – already so fully-formed, already so Altmanesque – mines shock and horror without ever framing them as such, and goes to lengths, all somehow effortlessly, to simply understand his characters. Even during a particularly divisive detour in the narrative, upon which Frances visits a brothel to procure some entertainment for her new housemate, a nervous atmosphere allows us to keenly experience her discomfort, and we’re directed to see everything from her point of view. It’s this grip on tone that keeps the movie on track, even when its story may threaten to drift off its rails; Altman always brings it back with an overarching grace and, most importantly, a point.
Of course, the focus of Frances’ interest, the unnamed boy, is the trump in the deck; Michael Burns’s broad smile, golden hair and baby-blue eyes makes him look like some kind of eerily sexy cherub sent to silently look over Frances, but crucially, there’s always something more sinister at play beneath the smile, masking an emptiness. His mystery is the scent to which Frances responds – or would she have fallen for anyone if they happened to be in the park that day? – and the complex machinations by which her psychology unfurls itself, revealing a shockingly, heartbreakingly delusional outlook at her core, is the framework the film uses to finally, ecstatically, terrifyingly erupt into its gasp-inducing, slyly clever climax. This is Altman, in only his third film, already beating his own path away from propriety, and toward the overarching authorship that would define him. For that alone, it’s essential viewing.
That Cold Day in the Park is available from Eureka! as part of their Masters of Cinema series.
4.0/5