Adelheid

Frantisek Vlacil, 1970 when he made this post-WW2 movie.
We think that this is not far off from being a very good film, but it probably pans out as average at best.
Vlacil seems to have decided to stop directing, he does not use his trademark closep ups, and only rarely does the looking up at the face thing. There is quite lot of most un-Vlacil like wide shots of people looking a bit lost in rooms.
The film is edited absolutely atrociously, it jars grimly. The acting doesn't intrude on our suspension of disbelief, but it also fails to take us anywhere. The speed this film goes at is mournful, and the colour scheme doesn't help.
The reason this film could have been very good (and in parts almost is) are two; firstly, the story is excellent. It would have benefitted from a bit of self-consciousness, a bit of Poe-esque hysteria around the house (which we never bloody well leave) but there are great psychosexual, fetishistic, and post-war reconcilliation things going on here. The nature of desire and that coming against the harsh realities of empirical war.
Secondly, in this film Vlacil is excellent in the small things. He does his identification and P.O.V. shots neatly, he is smart around the objects. Funny little things at the side, the painting and the cognac and the final scenes, are done with a great variety and lightness of touch.
This film could be really terrific with a remake. Not that the failure is Vlacil's fault; it just seems there was something off about the production. An oxymoron, an intriguing bore.