Junk Mail

Sick to death of movies like The Horse Whisperer and Cry, the Beloved Country, all shimmering vistas and verdant scenery? Norwegian director Pal Sletaune has no use whatsoever for the merely picturesque; as a matter of fact, most of the critical huzzahs concerning Junk Mail have focused on his depiction of the scuzzier side of his stereotypically sterile country, as if merely admitting that Oslo has an underbelly were an act of remarkable bravery. Oddly, the same critics seemed more than willing to overlook the film's disappointing plot, in which an irresponsible, spiteful, and generally disgusting postman finds a set of keys while on his rounds, lets himself into the apartment in question (that of a beautiful, mysterious woman, natch), and finds himself up to his no doubt bacteria-redolent armpits in what I guess according to my stupid metaphor would be much-needed hot water. What begins as an intriguing character study gradually evolves into a sketchy, unconvincing thriller; Sletaune rallies at the conclusion, with a beautiful, bizarrely moving final shot, but it's too little too late, I'm afraid. Nice muck, though. Optional. (M. D'Angelo)