No-one should marry out of loneliness.
Not as dagger-sharp or emotionally shattering a critique of postwar suburban conformity as the preceding year’s All That Heaven Allows—in particular, the material with the children (all monstrous, in typical Sirk fashion) is somewhat clumsily handled. He is still in the god-level phase of his career as regards form, however, and the mise-en-scène fetishists among us will have a ball with the surfeit of mirrored surfaces, grotesque plants, and bar-like structures on parade here. The toy…
