If you ever wondered what it would look like if someone tried to shoot a gothic thriller on a shoestring budget in the Australian outback and then sell it as American political intrigue, congratulations—you’ve met Harlequin. Director Simon Wincer, clearly inspired by the artistic ambition of a man who just discovered Panavision, treats his camera like a nervous uncle at a barbecue: it points vaguely in the right direction but mostly stares at you with confusion. The editing is as subtle as a chainsaw in a library, cutting abruptly between “dramatic” confrontations and sweeping shots of windblown trees that could double as a tourist commercial for Perth.
Lighting deserves a special mention—or perhaps a special apology. Scenes meant to evoke suspense are often lit like a dentist’s waiting room, while moments that should feel intimate or dangerous are drenched in either harsh daylight or a shadowless gloom, making you wonder if the cinematographer was using a flashlight app on a Nokia phone. And the sound design… well, let’s just say it’s miraculous that nobody’s ears bled before the opening credits finished. Dramatic crescendos are executed with all the nuance of a malfunctioning foghorn.
The Script: A Masterclass in Confusion
Ever seen a 400-page draft condensed into something barely readable in under two hours? You have now. Everett De Roche’s original priestly Rasputin fantasy was trimmed, altered, and repackaged for “marketability,” which apparently meant stripping it of any theological nuance and making Robert Powell’s Gregory Wolfe behave like a cross between a cult leader and a particularly persistent car salesman. The dialogue oscillates between portentous philosophical musings and straight-up “I just read this off a fortune cookie” wisdom, leaving audiences suspended somewhere between existential dread and outright confusion.
The plot attempts to juggle terminal illness, political machinations, unfaithful wives, and mystical healing powers, but in practice it’s like watching someone trying to mix oil, water, and concrete with a teaspoon. Scenes meant to be tense or heart-wrenching instead feel like a TV soap crossed with a high school play: overly earnest, under-rehearsed, and with a side of inexplicable mumbling.
Acting: Robert Powell Does His Best, and That’s All You Can Ask For
Robert Powell, best known for his Jesus impersonation in Jesus of Nazareth, here tries to inject gravitas into a role that screams “American political thriller by way of Perth community theater.” Powell glides through the film like a man who understands the stakes but not the script, delivering lines with the intensity of someone reading the phonebook aloud in a haunted house. Carmen Duncan, as the senator’s wife, does her best to evoke intrigue and moral conflict, but she is weighed down by dialogue that could make a fortune cookie cry. David Hemmings and Broderick Crawford lumber through their parts like zombies who have only just realized they’re in a movie.
The true performances, if you can call them that, come from the supporting cast, who occasionally lapse into accidental comedy. Alan Cassell’s attempt at an American accent is a linguistic crime against humanity, and Mark Spain’s child actor portrayal of a leukemia patient is simultaneously disturbing and unintentionally hilarious. There’s a scene where he supposedly experiences miraculous healing, and you can almost see him thinking, “Do I get candy now, or are we just filming this awkwardly?”
Plot: The Rasputin Story You Didn’t Ask For
Harlequin takes the historical figure of Rasputin, tucks him in a business suit, and drops him into suburban America—or at least, a Perth that desperately wants you to think it’s Washington, D.C. The narrative revolves around Senator Nick Rast, his terminally ill son, a mystic healer named Wolfe, and a shadowy cabal of old men who seem to think manipulating politics is best done in cardigan sweaters. You might ask, “Does it make sense?” The answer is an emphatic, disbelieving, and slightly horrified no.
Wolfe’s mystical powers are deployed like a grocery store magician showing off card tricks: impressive only if you squint and ignore all logic. Meanwhile, political intrigue is reduced to a few scenes of men talking in offices and one particularly baffling encounter in which Doc Wheelan appears to threaten someone with unspecified consequences, as though evil is contagious through passive-aggressive muttering. By the end, you’ll likely have forgotten who’s alive, who’s healed, and whether Australia is even a country or just an elaborate set.
Unintended Comedy Gold
What Harlequin lacks in coherence, it more than compensates for with accidental humor. Watching Robert Powell gesticulate mystically while Carmen Duncan wrings her hands is like watching two slightly confused mannequins try to perform Shakespeare. The tension intended by sinister undertones and ominous music often collapses under the weight of absurdity: a scene that should terrify feels like a rejected skit from a regional theater festival.
And let’s talk about the dubbing. Alan Cassell’s voice is redubbed to sound American, a choice that reminds viewers that the movie was made with Australian taxpayers’ money but meant to sell overseas. It’s a voice that belongs in an infomercial, narrating a vacuum cleaner demonstration, not in a thriller where a child’s life hangs in the balance.
Cultural and Production Notes: A Comedy of Errors
Harlequin is also a lesson in the curious art of pretending your budget is larger than it is. Shot in Western Australia, the film makes half-hearted attempts to mask its location, from obviously local flora trying to masquerade as Washington trees, to locals speaking in accents that wobble between confused Australian and strained Midwestern. The production itself reads like a soap opera of indecision: Bowie was nearly cast, Orson Welles demanded his weight in gold, and the script was endlessly rewritten. By the time cameras rolled, chaos had achieved cinematic form.
Funding came from an assortment of government agencies, private investors, and good intentions, which is probably why the movie feels as if it was shot by committee. Everyone had an idea, nobody had a solution, and the result is a Frankenstein’s monster of film: a body stitched from promising concepts but animated only by confused enthusiasm.
Verdict: For the Brave and the Masochistic
Harlequin is the kind of movie that exists in a parallel universe where competence is optional and absurdity is king. If you love movies that make you question the existence of narrative logic, revel in the subtle humor of unintentional weirdness, and enjoy wondering why exactly you’re watching what you’re watching, this film is for you. For everyone else, it’s a six-week lesson in “don’t hire Bowie, don’t hire Welles, and maybe don’t make a thriller with Rasputin in suburban Perth.”
Watching it is like being trapped at a party where everyone insists the punch is excellent but tastes suspiciously of regret. You’ll squirm. You’ll laugh. You’ll probably check the clock repeatedly. And when it ends, you’ll feel a curious combination of relief, confusion, and admiration for the sheer audacity of someone deciding this was a good idea in 1980.
In short: Harlequin isn’t just a movie—it’s a cinematic dare, a tax-funded drug trip, and proof that historical figures can survive multiple centuries only to get inexplicably lost in Western Australia.
