Hitchcrock a Time of Destiny

By RICHARD CORLISS

David Puttnam had a good idea when he took over Columbia Pictures in 1986. He would match Hollywood actors with daring directors from Britain, Europe and the U.S. independent bloc. The films that emerged from this cultural Marshall Plan in reverse might not be better than the usual teenpix and dime-novel dramas, but they ought to be more exciting.

Puttnam left Columbia last fall, before he could harvest the fruits of his scheme. But if he looks at A Time of Destiny, with two Oscar-winning actors (William Hurt and Timothy Hutton) and the team that made the off-Hollywood hit El Norte, he will be spinning in his golden parachute. The film is a mess.

As World War II heats up, the Larranetas of San Diego are already aboil. Papa (Francisco Rabal) is a Basque-born tyrant. Josie, his pretty daughter (Melissa Leo), is eloping with G.I. Jack (Hutton). Martin, the unloved son (Hurt), is so bent on winning the late approval of his Shane-sadist of a father that he follows Jack to Italy, and back home, with murder in mind.

With its purloined letters, incestuous jealousies and galloping neuroses, A Time of Destiny spins enough plot for a year of Falcon Crest, then filches its climax from Hitchcock's Vertigo and Saboteur. So how come nothing works? Maybe because this family farrago is played for keeps, instead of for the laughs it accidentally evokes.

Writer-Producer Anna Thomas and Writer-Director Gregory Nava have swathed their story in the amber sunsets of nostalgia. But this patina has the same effect on the winceable dialogue and agitated performances as lacquer on attic furniture. The farce of Destiny proves, yet again, that the road to dull is paved with bad pretensions. -- R.C.