The Fantasist (1987)

To me, this movie is perfection.

Thanks for the memories!

It's entirely possible that sending the audience out feeling lousy was intentional

It is a whirlwind of delight --- attractive actors, stunning couture, spectacular sets and outrageous parties. It's a feast for the eyes. But what really makes this dramedy work is the acting.

Moira Harris is a country girl who moves to the corrupted urban pit called Dublin. She has a teaching job but we don't see much of it. Her main interest seems to be in finding a suitable mate.She doesn't have much luck. The first man who asks her out on a date is a queer duck. It's her Headmaster of English. He's older than she is and he ought to be stable, if a bit boring, but instead he gargles his wine while tasting it at a fancy restaurant, then, when he drives her home, asks if he can rub her tummy before she goes in. The habit traces back to his mother. ("I was lucky. She died when I was ten, before I could outgrow her.") So much for Robert the Headmaster.Then she meets a visiting American writer in a neighboring apartment, Timothy Bottoms. He's charming at first, one of those Yanks with a sentimental attachment to the land of his ancestors. But, if anything, he's more screwed up than the Headmaster. He pulls childish stunts like telling her to hide a coin in her underwear and letting him dowse for it. The charm quickly morphs into rage when he thinks he's been mistreated. Finally he blows his cork entirely, calls her all sorts of filthy names, and throws her into a thicket. So much for Danny Sullivan.But through all this, by means of a curious set of circumstances, she has met a police inspector who limps. Somebody has been calling the young girls of Dublin and whispering dirty nothings into their ears. Not VERY dirty. Not vulgar really, but insinuating, with an occasional physiological trope like Mallarme. "I envy the slab of pavement that bears the imprint of your foot." THEIR slashers are more pretentious than ours. Some of his listeners, he tracks down and stabs to death, leaving their naked bodies in an odd posture. One of the victims happens to be a neighbor of Moira Harris, and she's taken by the polite but rather intense police inspector who interrogates her, played by my erstwhile co-star, Christopher Cazenove. "Oh, Inspector," she gushes to herself, "your breath doesn't smell like pipe tobacco but like basil." Harris has an unanticipated encounter with the Dublin slasher, after which, instead of running to the nearest police station, she takes the ferry for England so that the utterly absurd climax can take place in the Irish Sea and the perp can fall screaming into the icy water, leaving Harris behind, holding a piece of him in her arms.Just a few impressions. One is that there is nudity and cursing going on here and even simulated coitus, which tells me that there must have been big changes in Irish cinema since I was last in a Dublin theater, watching an American movie from which the words d*** and h**** had been excised. Second, Moira Harris has large expressive features that can turn in a twinkling from joy to fright with only a minimal muscular rearrangement. She has one of those rolling walks too, of the kind that used to be attributed to sailors. Lindsay Crouse and Lee Remick had it too. She's quite attractive without being stunningly beautiful. The script by Robin Hardy is commercial trash combining sex, violence, and romance. The best performance is that of Mick Lally as Uncle Lar. His impression of a drunken guy peeling a boiled potato is peerless. And Hitchcock would have appreciated the stomach-churning story he tells during the act.This is one of those rare movies that should have just dropped the sex and violence and concentrated on the characters. Instead it looks like a poor imitation of an already exhausted American genre movie.

Director Robin Hardy's reputation rests almost exclusively on his 1973 cult classic, The Wicker Man. On the evidence of this, there it should stay. Wicker fans whose curiosity has been pricked should step quickly over The Fantasist as if it were a polystyrene pebble, for it holds no weight and will do them no good.Overgrown Catholic schoolgirl Patricia Teeling (Harris) takes on a teaching post in Dublin, against the misgivings of her suburban relatives. "We don't want you picking up their city ways up there!" Her vocation coincides with a series of murders, perpetrated on young women by a nuisance caller with an especially mellifluous delivery, and who possibly supplements his income penning homilies for Hallmark greeting cards. "I'm the light in your jade green eyes where the sun bursts through and turns our stone grey city into gold. I am the melting feeling in your tummy when you hear music so sublimely beautiful you want to cry." If his poetry (which makes the average Vogon's efforts seem like TS Eliot) doesn't polish them off, the old knife-between-the-shoulder-blades trick certainly will."The man of my dreams is an imaginative rock," Patricia tells her flatmate, and soon attracts three unsuitable suitors, one of whom might be the killer. Could it be beardy weirdy English master Robert Foxley (Kavanagh)? He gargles wine loudly in restaurants. Plus, he's got a silly beard. In fact, he looks just like one of those upside-down faces in optical illusion books. And his romantic small talk consists of stuff like "I knew you'd make a good mother, Patricia." That's not good.Love interest number two is her downstairs neighbour, the nervy American writer Danny Sullivan (Bottoms). He's married, so he's not a great catch. He also does a neat line in dirty phone calls in funny voices (to his wife, he claims). Then again, his wife is shortly bound for the chop. However, this doesn't stop our Pat hiding coins down her knickers so he can divine them with his rod (no euphemism intended). "I guess I just trust him," this latter-day Little Red Riding Hood tells suitor number three, Christopher Cazenove's Inspector McMyler, who keeps blown-up photos of the victims in his cottage, and wants to photograph Pat in the nude. Casual viewers will have figured out by now that Patty isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.This is a very silly film indeed; featuring grating overacting and a grating 1980s soundtrack, all tourist board Gaelic flutes and stabbing synths. Level 42 even make a cameo appearance performing the cheesiest white-funk since... well, Level 42 really are in a class of their own.Lacking a playwright of Anthony Shaffer's stature, the dialogue's in dire need of an editor (sample line: "Death tries its best to rival procrastination as a thief of time"). The cinematography's functional at best, while scenes cutting between the slaughter of a victim and the carving of a roast merely underscore the clunkiness.Most depressingly (in Hardy's hands) the film also panders to Vatican-friendly genre cliché, with Patricia's potential fate prompted through her burgeoning sexual liberation. Contrast this with the subversive Wicker Man, in which sex is portrayed as a guilt-free, joyous affair through which the protagonist could have saved himself, if only he'd actually had it.Here, the one fleetingly erotic scene is deftly undermined by the killer merrily using Patricia's bare buttocks as a pair of bongos. What a symphony he could have produced with Willow MacGregor, the landlord's daughter in The Wicker Man!

I saw this movie for one reason and one reason only and, probably like everyone else who has seen it, that reason is because the film is directed by Robin Hardy; the man behind the all-time cult classic 'The Wicker Man'. I honestly have no idea how a man behind such a great film as The Wicker Man could end up directing something as crap as this. The Fantasist does not have a very good reputation, and that's hardly surprising as this film is completely boring. It was thirteen years between the release of this film and Robin Hardy's classic, but I actually believe that shooting for The Fantasist began in 1974, only production was slow as the cast and crew kept on falling asleep during shooting! The film takes place in Ireland and follows an Irish woman who moves to Dublin. It's not long before she begins receiving obscene phone calls from a stranger, and (coincidently?) there also happens to be a killer on the loose known as 'The Phone Call Killer'. Most people in that situation would change their phone number, but our heroine is drawn to the mystery caller instead...The film starts off slowly but any hopes of it getting better are quickly dashed when it becomes quite clear that the pace is never going to pick up. This movie will grind you down; such is the sheer boredom on display. The film could be termed a slasher since people get sliced and diced, but it seems that Robin Hardy wanted it to be a bit more than just a slasher, and it's backfired horribly as there is no interest created around the central premise which absolutely kills it. Robin Hardy also had no luck in the casting department either as American actress Moira Harris fails to convince or generate any sympathy from the audience. The Wicker Man was a largely aesthetic affair with the picturesque island featuring strongly as well as the standout ending; but there's nothing like that here; all the locations are dreary and drab and that adds to the intense torture that is The Fantasist. Hardy probably wanted the movie to be a bit steamy and while there are brief flashes of nudity, the film certainly isn't sexy (though a sequence that sees the killer undress a girl with his knife is one of the few memorable moments). It all boils down to a stupid and predictable ending and overall, I would not recommend this rubbish even to hardcore fans of The Wicker Man.

The plot jumps around a bit so you really don't understand the connections between various characters, and the movie is quite illogical at times. However, there are enough freaky moments to make this worth viewing. "What the Hell?!" popped into my mind many times- in a pleasurable way. The dialogue is great as well. If you want an interesting experience, bear with this VERY odd one.