Well, well....Roeg touched a bit of a nerve there, didn't he? He was a genius while he was cataloguing his various characters' descents into psychosis for a couple of decades, but as soon as he has the bad taste to suggest that redemption (or even some good advice) might be found in the bad old Catholic church, the hipper-than-thou alternative movie crowd gets extra vicious. Worse still, Theresa Russell's character - faced with experiences that nothing in her avowedly rationalist outlook has an explanation for, is unwillingly forced to deal with those experiences on another level - that of the spiritual. You know, the realm of the ignorant and superstitious, the sort of thing that the art-house cinephiles are supposed to be above. Oh, the horror... So she finds her marriage - the idea that it might be a uniquely important commitment - affirmed by what seems uncomfortably like divine intervention. People who find this idea prima facie offensive could maybe ask themselves why they instinctively jump into attack mode at being challenged to take seriously the idea of a spiritual dimension to their lives. But they probably won't. Sure, this film has some problems, notably Talia Shire's delirious hamwork as the overwrought nun, 1950s-style attire and all. And the dialogue between Marie Davenport and the young priest in their last scene is straight out of the Spellbound School of Glib Interpretations (though Hitchcock's movie escaped similar charges due to the source of wisdom having impeccably secular credentials as a Freudian psychoanalyst). But, sadly, Nicolas Roeg appears to have copped a critical mauling as much for even asking the question as for the possible answers this film presents.