Husbands and Wives

The sort of film that exists solely so that pseudointellectuals who have never been an opium-addled prostitute or a vagrant with superfluous nipples all over his frostbitten face can meet in the lobby afterwards and trade banal comments about its "honesty," then perhaps tell their dull friends at a party the next week how very good the acting was, and then never speak or think of it again. Why ought we care about the state of these dithering yammerers' marriages? The only marriage we care to think of is that between revolutionary thought and revolutionary praxis, as we have explained to our lovers many times.