I certainly think so. I've never seen anything with Kidder that didn't make me cringe with embarrassment while wanting to spritz with Holy Water.
Now, let's back-track to the review I was planning to write.
J. Lee Thompson's The Reincarnation of Peter Proud, based on a novel by Max S. Ehrlich, is a perfect reason for people to giggle and point at the 1970s. It's a dopey, overly-dramatic, performance-free glob of hippie-dippy spiritulalism, perfect for anyone who wants to get in touch with the silliest of the Me Decade. If you know anything at all about the Hindu belief in the journey of souls through reincarnation, don't be shocked when Hooey-wood takes the idea and turns it into a lugubrious chunk of nonsense about some rich New England dimebag who gets murdered by his wife, and his soul pops up- -for totally no reason at all--thirty years later in a young university professor.
If it weren't for the mystery that Michael Sarrazin's Peter Proud has to unravel to explain his out-of-his-body-and-in-somebody-else's dreams, all we would have would be lots of naked people swimming and sexing, principal characters driving around Massachusetts in gigantic Chevrolets, everyone looking as if they are in the death throes of painful mortification, and Margot Kidder, painted up with flour in her hair to make her look old, swilling bourbon, and, I am not kidding, soaking in her bathtub while masturbating to the memory of her no-good-nik husband raping her in 1947.
On occasion, there is some real mystery here, but every time the story begins to treat the audience as a group of adults--instead of dim teens--Thompson and screenwriter Ehrlich throw in some nonsense that stops everything dead in its tracks.
Sarrazin goes to the house of his previous self (good time for mysteriousness, right?) and we spend more time gawping at the pudgy teenager in the tight shorts who wants to jump Peter's peter.
We're adults here, right J.? Then treat us as such!
By the end--and if you didn't see it coming, you must be new to movies--we're left with nothing solved but for Kidder's character's liver glowing in the dark. 105 minutes of nonsense and nothing to show for it.
Unless watching Kidder play with herself is all you need in a motion picture.
Now, let's back-track to the review I was planning to write.
J. Lee Thompson's The Reincarnation of Peter Proud, based on a novel by Max S. Ehrlich, is a perfect reason for people to giggle and point at the 1970s. It's a dopey, overly-dramatic, performance-free glob of hippie-dippy spiritulalism, perfect for anyone who wants to get in touch with the silliest of the Me Decade. If you know anything at all about the Hindu belief in the journey of souls through reincarnation, don't be shocked when Hooey-wood takes the idea and turns it into a lugubrious chunk of nonsense about some rich New England dimebag who gets murdered by his wife, and his soul pops up- -for totally no reason at all--thirty years later in a young university professor.
If it weren't for the mystery that Michael Sarrazin's Peter Proud has to unravel to explain his out-of-his-body-and-in-somebody-else's dreams, all we would have would be lots of naked people swimming and sexing, principal characters driving around Massachusetts in gigantic Chevrolets, everyone looking as if they are in the death throes of painful mortification, and Margot Kidder, painted up with flour in her hair to make her look old, swilling bourbon, and, I am not kidding, soaking in her bathtub while masturbating to the memory of her no-good-nik husband raping her in 1947.
On occasion, there is some real mystery here, but every time the story begins to treat the audience as a group of adults--instead of dim teens--Thompson and screenwriter Ehrlich throw in some nonsense that stops everything dead in its tracks.
Sarrazin goes to the house of his previous self (good time for mysteriousness, right?) and we spend more time gawping at the pudgy teenager in the tight shorts who wants to jump Peter's peter.
We're adults here, right J.? Then treat us as such!
By the end--and if you didn't see it coming, you must be new to movies--we're left with nothing solved but for Kidder's character's liver glowing in the dark. 105 minutes of nonsense and nothing to show for it.
Unless watching Kidder play with herself is all you need in a motion picture.