The Piper's Price

By Mark Goodman

There is a vital difference between black humor and antic violence. Dark comedy requires a point of view, plus a consistent thread of absurdity that allows the audience to suspend belief. Writer-Cartoonist Jules Feiffer does not lack a point of view, but in his first screenplay, Little Murders, the thread of absurdity snaps so often that the film becomes little more than a succession of insane horrors.

The film revolves around a middle-class family trapped in modern urban madness. No such setting would be complete these days without Elliott Gould. As Alfred, a photographer who specializes in snapshots of excrement, he is your average apathetic male set upon by a conventionally aggressive female named Patsy (Marcia Rodd). Her pursuit of Alfred is typical Feiffer: overpowering feminity frustrated by Silly Putty masculinity. Her father (Vincent Gardenia) bellows like the urban Babbitt he is while Mom amuses Alfred with pictures of her dead son. Another sibling snivels around the apartment in sexual ambiguity.

Dance now, says Feiffer, pay the piper later. It is a terrible price. Patsy is murdered in Alfred's arms by an anonymous sniper, and a grisly, incoherent tale of urban warfare ensues. Doors are padlocked, windows are shuttered, rifles are broken out. A paranoid detective (Alan Arkin) tries to solve Patsy's murder --and 344 other unsolved killings --amid drumfire volleys of sniper fire. Alfred lapses into catatonia, reviving just in time to command a witless, meaningless shooting spree.

Much of the fault here is probably Arkin's, who directs as well as performs. His film work is grotesquely diffuse. Gould's inability to bring any form or sense to his role is more ominous; lately, perhaps because of overexposure, he seems capable only of self-parody.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.