“How far will a woman go to possess a 19 year old boy?”

“When does that screaming loneliness drown the silence? When do the innermost cravings of a woman, tear away the iron-clad bonds of her small Victorian world? For Francis Austin- a virgin spinster of 32, it happens that cold day in the park. For Francis, the promise of fulfillment comes in the form of a wet 19 year old boy.”

That Cold Day In The Park (1969) is by Robert Altman, an iconic American director (M.A.S.H 1970, Nashville 1975) best known for his very naturalistic approach to plot development in his films. He has a very stylized viewpoint, creating an atmosphere in which the actors’ dialogues overlap. He allowed his actors to improvise their lines, which was a very unorthodox method of filmmaking. He’d often refer to a screenplay as a “blueprint” for the action and cared more about character motivation than the relevant components of the plot. In Cold Day, he uses a more somber monotone dialogue, still informal and intimate, yet not as cluttered with the chatter he uses in his later works.

That Cold Day in the Park includes a screenplay by Gillian Freeman, from the novel by Richard Miles and was produced by Donald Factor and Leon Mirell.

The film works as a mood piece of modern Gothic horror that eventually devolves into the Grande Guignol style. Another aspect of this subtler psychological horror film is how it makes the protagonist particularly ambiguous as we are not sure where our sympathies lie. Considering the boy’s entrapment, which he becomes complicit in since he has several opportunities to stay away once he realizes that Frances is not emotionally stable, he’s complacent in luring Frances into his game. While Frances is both predator and victim, the moral ambiguities lay open.

Altman often presents Frances in that iconographic mirror in order to represent her duality—the reflections of the repressed woman and the voyeur who seeks to fulfill her sexual desires. While ‘the boy’ walks around the apartment naked, he becomes an ‘object’ of desire for Francis’s fragile self-control. She is a pathetic, deranged time bomb who will eventually lose all hold on reality.

Again, I will not give away the climactic ending. It’s too powerful through the camera’s framing, the storytelling, and, of course, Dennis and Burns’s extraordinary performances.

At first, I set out to do this review with a mind towards coupling it with another psycho-sexual film experiment Secret Ceremony 1968 starring Liz Taylor and Mia Farrow, by the great director Joseph Losey, but once I started thinking and writing about That Cold Day in the Park, I realized I had a lot to say, so I’ll save that other psychologically startling feature for another time, although it makes for a good companion piece.

Johnny Mandell’s music works well as the very minimalist piano score that creates the atmosphere of loneliness. It’s a beautifully evocative piece of film scoring. Laszlo Kovacs’s cinematography creates a stark and sterile landscape whose monochromatic colors seem to implode around the characters.

Starring the criminally underrated actress Sandy Dennis (Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?’66, The Fox, The Out of Towners ’70) as Frances Austen.

And Michael Burns was credited as The Boy (loads of television appearances and he plays yet another strange boy in Grand Guignol’s The Mad Room 1969), a psychological horror film directed by Bernard Girard, which was a retelling of the stage play Ladies in Retirement. Ladies in Retirement was written by Edward Percy and Reginald Denham. The play premiered on Broadway at Henry Miller’s Theatre on March 26, 1940, and ran until August 3, 1940, for a total of 151 performances. The original Broadway production was produced by Gilbert Miller and staged by Reginald Denham. It starred Flora Robson as Ellen Creed, Isobel Elsom as Leonora Fiske, and Estelle Winwood as Louisa Creed.

The Boy’s sister is played by Susanne Benton, Nick is played by John Garfield Jr., and Cult actress Luana Anders plays the Prostitute.

Susan Benton as The Boy’s sister.

Below includes a feature on Luana Anders as part of Brides of Horror 1960s!

BRIDES OF HORROR – Scream Queens of the 1960s! – Part 1

Sandy Dennis, an Actor’s Studio disciple, is the compelling embodiment of the quirky, neurotic wounded bird. All of her unique idiosyncrasies manifest themselves with an air of offbeat mannerisms.

And in this way, you either are drawn to her non-subtle methodology, which seems more natural to her than affected, or… her quirky charisma and physical ticks – the stuttering, nervous laughter, hysterical writhing, and awkward fits and starts- might just repel you. There’s probably no middle ground. That didn’t stop her from winning Academy Awards and Golden Globes for her various performances. Best Supporting Actress for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? 1966, nominated for Best Actress in The Out of Towners 1971, and The Moscow International Film Festival Award for Best Actress in Up the Down Staircase 1967, and a Tony Award for A Thousand Clowns 1962-63.

This is what distinguishes Sandy Dennis from any other actor. She is memorable, and everything she touches will keep you transfixed because she is a brilliant sprite who possesses a hint of madness and jubilation.

The film is premised on Dennis’ character being a psychotic, sexually repressed woman whose loneliness has driven her to a spiraling madness. She is portrayed as the figure of an archaic high-born spinster devoid of emotional or physical connection to her own body or any other individual, male or female. A sexless drone living outside the world in her own isolated imprisonment/apartment in Vancouver left to her by her wealthy deceased mother. Frances carries on the ritual of entertaining her mother’s older friends out of an empty obligation filled with no joy or passion for life.

I’ve not read Richard Miles’s book, but I think that this story would have made for a compelling stage piece.

At the same time, Sandy Dennis was quite a young actress of 31; her tightly upturned hairstyle and mannerisms indicate that she is taking on the role her mother once had, presenting herself as an ‘older’ woman.

She seems to be more of a recluse than a hostess. She is repulsed by the old doctor friend (Edward Greenhalgh) who keeps trying to get her alone. It revolts her that he wears support bands to hold up his socks and smells like an old man. And she doesn’t seem to want to engage in conversation with any of her older guests. One wonders if these gatherings are just Pavlovian rituals of the idle rich, a circumstance she has been conditioned to since birth, or is she shielding herself from any real contemporary human contact by hanging around this collection of fossilized bores?

[And I mean no disrespect for the elderly; I hold a very high reverence for people who have claimed the right to life experience, but here in this situation, these particular guests seem to be used as a conveyance of sour, cynical, and hardened natural snobbery.]

However, the film uses artifacts of growing older to symbolize Frances’s revulsion of time-honored traditions and older people. Though she surrounds herself with remnants of a past way of life handed down by her mother, her growing antagonism and loneliness spark her madness.

Frances lives in her own world and, for no reason that we are privy to, has been terribly damaged by her loneliness and self-imposed isolation handed down by the matriarch.

One day, one cold and rainy day during a very strained social dinner party at her nondescript urban setting, she notices Michael Burns (The Boy) sitting on the park bench outside her apartment window. At first, Frances, wearing a forbidding black dress, ignores the young man who is conspicuously perched on the bench with no apparent purpose. Only later do we learn that he had been waiting for his sister Nina (Susanne Benton), who fails to show up that day. Most likely in bed with her rough-around-the-edges, Vietnam-vet, drug-using, oversexed boyfriend, played by John Garfield Jr.

A lone passerby drops a newspaper in the trash can by the bench, and The Boy uses it as a blanket to shield himself from the rain. This poignant action creates an aura of a wounded soul at the mercy of the elements- an influence that draws the boy closer to Frances’s gaze—a praying mantis who has stumbled onto her mate/prey sanctuary.

She studies him with fascination. Perhaps, she glimpses a kindred spirit in his solitariness. We see how she sets herself apart from her guests. We sense a certain hostility, an obvious antagonism toward her gathering, rather than empathy. Even her trusty servants, who dote on her like mother hens, evoke a level of disdain in Francis. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Parnell, played by Rae Brown, sheds a disapproving air about Francis once she’s let the boy into the apartment. Everyone involved in the periphery of Francis’s life assumes her loneliness is unhealthy. Yet Francis continues to shield herself from any genuine human contact until she discovers The Boy. The Boy is the catalyst for her latent sexual desire.

She sends her guests away early and runs outside, standing behind the chain link fence of the apartment complex, where an almost prison-like effect is constructed. She calls to the boy from her fortress. He comes to the fencing, and Francis invites him into her apartment to dry off. She then runs him a bath and begins to dote on him, feeding him and playing him records of various varieties of music. She hovers over him as if he were a stray puppy or, as the New York Times reviewer (Howard Thompson) referred to him, a young colt she has found.

In Peter Shelley’s Grande Dame Guignol Cinema, he observes how Kovacs lenses Frances in shadow as if she is a ‘female monster’ when she asks ‘The Boy’ to stay. This also suggests that Altman presents Frances’s persona as likened to ‘vampirism’ as she wears her hair down at night.

The Boy feigns being mute. This is something his sister lets us know he does from time to time. We do not understand why he would shut off from communicating, but he uses it as a way to watch Francis from a distance. He tells his sister the first time he sneaks out the bedroom window back to his real home that he’s never met anyone who talked as much as Francis and that she is sexually weird. Perhaps we are supposed to decipher something significant about a boy who chooses not to talk and a woman who chooses only to talk. Francis’s chatter is so trivial at times. But we attribute it to her loneliness.

Early on, we sense that his being mute is a ruse to elicit sympathy from Francis and take away the burden of engaging with her completely; we also see glimpses of Francis knowing all too well that he is only playing mute. But she is suddenly drawn to him, and now their game has commenced, which plays out very tediously, yet compelling all the same.

Michael Burns has an impish face. He’s a highly underrated actor of the ’70s. In Cold Day, his range is truly utilized in neo-Gothic urban fashion. His role in The Mad Room (1969), released that same year, starring Shelley Winters and Stella Stevens, didn’t really give him the environment to expand his acting prowess. He’s got boyish good looks. Almost Cherubim-like. We see his naked bum a lot, prancing around the apartment with only a bath towel and his silent body language. Doing a little Chaplinesque pantomime to convey his spirit, as he is acting mute for Francis. He exudes a hint of dangerous quality yet manifests a gentleness. Perhaps in his mind, he at first romanticizes in a dreamy fashion that he is an Oliver Twist who has stumbled onto something good. A street urchin who has been taken in by a seemingly kind yet odd woman. And so he’s playing along with the game, all the time realizing that Sandy Dennis’s character is not quite right. She talks incessantly about things that aren’t relevant. He humors her in an odd sort of sympathetic way.

Of course, there is another element of his motive for allowing himself to be taken in. His opportunism is shown as he tolerates her advances, the exploitation of her quirkiness, and the foisting of gifts and comforts upon him. We later come to learn that he is from a very dysfunctional home. When he runs home to his sister Nina, who’s smoking hash and carrying on with her boyfriend, he tells her how grateful he is to finally have his own room and bed.

Nina is a hypersexual sister who has more than incestuous overtones for her little brother. The Boy also has a strain of sexual dysfunction in him as well. There are no boundaries as his sister has sex with her boyfriend while her brother watches through the fire escape outside her window. Later on, she shows up uninvited to Francis’s apartment and takes a bath; she plunges him into the tub with her and then, while lying on the bed naked, tells him that he excites her and she excites him. If not for her breaking the tense and perverse moment with laughter, we might have seen The Boy move onto the bed to have sex with her. These are streetwise and blamelessly ruthless children. Apparently, the mother is not involved, and these siblings are out to fend for themselves. There is no familiar foundation from which they spring, and so they seem to wander aimlessly, pleasuring themselves with whatever comes their way.

After the first night of Francis’s treacly verbal stroking of her new pet, she tucks him into bed like a child, and then she locks the door. He is able to sneak away through the window to retreat back to his origin. To meet up with his sister. To relate the strange situation he has stumbled into. But we get the first sign that this diversion, this subterfuge, will not end well.

From that very first night, there is a sort of tedium that drones on as Dennis’s character starts to care to take him, which begins with the locking of the door to his room. Though striking the boy as bizarre, he seems untroubled by this maneuver and so slips out at night through the window, planning to return later on, unnoticed by Francis.

Later on in the film, entering his room, she discovers he’s out again at night after having poured her heart out with more than the usual meaningless diatribes. She realizes it’s really a lump of dolls he’s stuffed under the blanket, made to look like him sleeping.

In a moment of vulnerability, she had extended an intimate invitation, that it’s okay if he wants to make love to her, and that she’d like him to, expressing her desire for physical intimacy and reassuring him of her consent. However, upon discovering his absence from the bed, her emotions undergo a dramatic shift. The realization that he has departed ignites a profound sense of betrayal and abandonment. Her initial disappointment quickly escalates into outrage, manifesting in an anguished scream that pierces the silence. This outburst serves as a catalyst, allowing the first glimpses of her suppressed anger to surface. The carefully maintained facade of composure begins to crumble, revealing the raw, unfiltered emotions that lie beneath—a complex mixture of hurt, indignation, and a deep-seated fury at being left alone in such a vulnerable state.

So, no more slipping out for the boy. She nails down every window and locks all the doors and keeps him prisoner. When he returns after the revelation that he’s been slipping out, he now finds that he is a virtual prisoner, not a fitful one. He tells her that he can leave any time he wants. He looks for knives in the kitchen and grabs a meat cleaver to try and wrench the nails from the window sills. The tension is building as he realizes that this is not a game anymore, that she is truly mentally deranged, and he is now her captive.

She tells him that she understands that he’s young and needs sex and that she’ll bring him someone.

She then proceeds to go to a seedy bar, trying to procure a prostitute as a surrogate for her sexual repression. At the first bar Francis goes to, she sits and watches a girl, beehived and exuding a Mary Quant’s black eyeliner and attitude. Francis approaches her in the bathroom and asks if she’ll come home with her because she has a boy there who needs sex. The girl asks how much, then rebuffs Francis and calls her a pervert. Assuming that the sexual procurement was for herself, a woman, and not someone else. But overhearing the incident, Michael Murphy as The Rounder takes on the task of recruiting a prostitute for Francis. The smarmy character that Murphy plays brings Francis to what looks like an all-night dive diner/lesbian hangout, where all the players in the room are further used to set off an ambiguous puzzle as to whether the prostitute is for her or not. Francis’s sexuality is truly ambiguous in this film.

A scene at the gynecologist (a male doctor) is part of the narrative that tells us how clinically Francis is disconnected from the sex act. Her body is something she is not attached to, but finding this boy, as a keepsake, a plaything, brings her madness to the level of psycho-sexual and psychopathic breakdown.

Ultimately, while we’ve been dancing back and forth between both characters who have been humoring each others’ motives and whims, the fracturing of reality has begun for Francis, and ultimately for The Boy, to see that he has entered a savage trap. The tension stems from more of a growing inertia that suddenly combusts.

Luana Anders plays Sylvie, the prostitute, in one of the more emotionally connected scenes that give us some frame of reference of reality to the real world, a more engaging character who comes into the framing of the story. The whole thing culminates in a very disturbing moment that abruptly grabs at your psychic jugular vein and leaves you speechless. That Cold Day in the Park is a tragic, bleak, dismal, and psychologically grotesque film to watch.

It’s a compelling interaction of misguided souls triggering a psychotic combustion of parts and leaving you more than a little uncomfortable. Sandy Dennis has done her share of films where she can be like a languid train wreck. That is manifest in Altman’s psycho-sexual drama.

Perhaps in its initial theatrical release, audiences found it disturbing and unsavory, today it satisfies my taste for eclectic cinema and character acting with a slow burn and an undeniable gestalt-laden, thought-provoking climax that permeates the brain cells and lasts on the tongue like a big clove of garlic, the film disturbs the mind for hours. While That Cold Day In The Park obviously reviled film critics and moviegoers during its theatrical release in 1969, I think it’s one of Altman’s most underrated pieces of work.

“The kindest thing to say of this misguided drama, about a wealthy, thirtyish spinster, who installs, then imprisons a coltish youth in her apartment, is that it caused a healthy flurry of filming activity in Vancouver, British Columbia, by an enterprising American production unit.”

“The climax is a gory business with a bread knife.”