In an early master class scene in blocking, the couple discuss their plans as Myra begins to show signs of instability. In a minefield waltz, Billy and Myra fidget and pace about the room as this friction grows between them\u2014 Billy is clearly not down with the cause. There is one constant amid the pleas and vetos: no matter how the pair advances within the depth-of-field, they always come to a rest with Myra looming over Billy, threatening to swallow him whole. When her interpretation of memories clashes with his, it\u2019s quickly clear through Billy\u2019s visible disintegration that this longtime struggle has defeated him. He physically shrinks into himself, and navigates the eggshells as gently as possible, whispering \u201cYes, of course, dear.\u201d The phrase, in various forms, precedes his kidnapping of Amanda Clayton (Judith Donner) and other sins that whittle away at the prospect of a happy ending. From thousand-yard stares during Myra\u2019s rants to passive questioning (\u201cYou think we really need that bit, do you?\u201d is his vehement objection to a death threat in the ransom note they wrote), the crux of Attenborough\u2019s acting here is in restraint and detachment. If his power is in what he doesn\u2019t do or say, his co-lead provides a counterweight of kinetic transparency. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As that counterweight, Kim Stanley skates up to the edge of madness and does pirouettes. Each wayward synapse firing off in her brain finds expression in a wrinkling nose or a sudden, monotone calmness that precedes the storm. \u201cWhat we\u2019re doing is a means to an end,\u201d she explains as though to a dense child, \u201cYou want the end, don\u2019t you? Well, then, you must agree with the means.\u201d The manipulation is two-pronged for Billy: his wife is specifically justifying kidnapping and assault for clout, but the logic applies to his efforts to avoid triggering another mental episode, as well. Myra is a messy enough character to need medical intervention but garner empathy, all while descending into predatory behavior. She knows it\u2019s predatory, too, delivering \u201cWe\u2019re not wrong! What we\u2019re doing is not wrong!\u201d with Fatal Attraction<\/em> levels of delusion. The show-stopping performance earned Stanley a nomination for an Oscar that ended up going to Julie Andrews for Mary Poppins<\/em>, a choice so fair that SoaWA<\/em> fans can only shake their heads in awe at the feast of riches (Bancroft! Loren! Reynolds!) given in the Best Actress category of the 1965 Academy Awards. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Myra\u2019s next s\u00e9ance circle commences with thirty minutes left on the clock, no longer a routine session because Mrs. Clayton (Nannette Newman) has joined in, unannounced. No matter for Myra, eager to show her \u201ctruth\u201d to the mother of the girl she has confined upstairs. As the guests join hands, DP Gerry Turpin\u2019s lens slides in on the action and lowers until nearly level with the table, as though taking a seat. It\u2019s one of Forbes\u2019 many devices to command engagement; when Amanda croaks out a feverish \u201cMommy?\u201d mere rooms away from rescue, the frame floods with Attenborough\u2019s panicked reaction, eyes ablaze with the dread of a thousand stress ulcers. Whether by negative space compositions or aggressively intimate framing, there is nothing else to behold but these people and their problems.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the promised S\u00e9ance<\/em> shortly thereafter, and with highly suspicious investigators in attendance, the fallout from Billy\u2019s reality-fracturing revelations to his wife come down in a spectacular parade of regression. Myra, confronted hours before with the very traumas that drain her and<\/em> drive her (\u201cArthur is dead!\u201d Billy shouts), collapses into her id in a typical \u201860s psychoanalysis showcase. Jumping between her current voice and her inner child\u2019s, Myra enters a legitimate trance and all of her trauma\u2014 and the crimes that were borne of them\u2014comes spilling out in a vomitus. Rather than edit frantic cuts to match the rising momentum of frenzy, editor Derek York holds just an extra beat on each face around the table (to include stage and screen giant Patrick Magee, as a treat) in a stark View-Master of suspicion and dread. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Writhing in her seat, Stanley accesses a euphoric delirium, sharing an elated kinship with young Harvey Scrimshaw\u2019s deathbed revelations in The Witch<\/em> (2015), Piper Laurie\u2019s post-prom sermon of Carrie<\/em> (1976) and Shelley Winters in the third act of any movie she\u2019s in. Looking back upon a decades-long streak of male auteurs working through their femme anxieties (looking at you, Hitchcock), S\u00e9ance<\/em> and its approach to Myra\u2019s iteration of derangement reads as far more nuanced and humanizing than that of the Sweet Charlottes and Auntie Roos of the era. In the film\u2019s final moments, when the titular s\u00e9ance is complete, Myra\u2019s waterlogged eyelids open with a more veritable flutter than they did in the opening sequence. The saga is over, the deed confessed, the handcuffs are out. Her husband, unable to look her in the eye for most of the runtime, raises his head and meets her gaze. She asks if she did well and, with heartbreaking relief, Billy can finally say, \u201cYes, dear,\u201d with true sincerity. “S\u00e9ance On A Wet Afternoon” is now streaming on HBOMax<\/a> and the Criterion Channel<\/a>. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/crookedmarquee.com\/stage8\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/07\/seance_on_a_wet_afternoon1-1024x576.jpg\")
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